


Black Coffee

by DValkyrie



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 20th Century, Alternate Universe - Noir, Crimes & Criminals, Detective Noir, Drinking, F/F, Jazz Age, Murder Mystery, Smoking, whodunit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-01-23 06:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DValkyrie/pseuds/DValkyrie
Summary: When a body winds up in the alleyway of a jazz club, Private Inspector P. Macneary is sent to investigate.Detective Noir AU.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez & Petra Macneary, Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Dorothea Arnault & Petra Macneary, Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary
Comments: 13
Kudos: 144





	1. The Cocktail Party Effect

**Author's Note:**

> No one asked for this, so I did it anyway. Y'all don't even know how excited I am for Noir Aus it's actually disgusting.
> 
> Massive thank you to @MarbleOcean for beta reading what a legend.

**** **Twelfth day of Red Wolf Moon, 1939**

The man was the most average person imaginable.

Average build, average skin, average life, average gunshot to the chest… not so average knife above the right kneecap, though. 

Private Inspector P. Macneary’s eyebrows skyrocketed as she scanned the body lying on the cold, metal surface in the morgue. This was not how she imagined her 5pm start of the day to go, but here she was; in a morgue with an average man with a not-so-average death.

“It’s truly unique,” Came the tired voice of Dr. Linhardt Von Hevring from the other side of the body. He handed Petra a death certificate over the corpse, wrinkling his nose. 

“His name is Joshua Victor. He’s the head of a sales corporation from The Alliance. The poor bugger was found in an alleyway of Mittelfrank Jazz Club, slumped over in a heap of garbage." Linhardt winced as his eyes lingered on the knife that was stuck through seven layers of skin.

“You are not wrong, this is having uniqueness.” Petra mused, running a gloved hand over the man’s leg, up to where the wound had dried up. Blood crusted around the skin and stained the pants of his boring suit.

“My confusion is with this knife.” Petra addressed Linhardt by looking up into his tired eyes - bags evident. “I am of the belief that knives are not common in Fódlan,” Petra immediately felt the pistol against her left thigh become more prominent at her words. Being from the Brigid Archipelago, she knew how to use a blade, but since joining the Adrestian Police Force, she had been instructed to use the pistol instead.

“You’re correct, but this case is far from common.” Linhardt shrugged, taking a step back to sit in his chair. He looked exhausted, but that wasn’t anything new. The analyst would work strange hours and always make room for a nap. “I’ve concluded that the knife went in first, but that wasn’t the actual cause of death. We can thank the gunshot for that.”

“If that is the case, who has been doing the shooting?” Petra questioned, moving her gaze from the knife’s black handle up to the patch of blood that had formed and dried around the bare chest wound.

“That’s for you to find out, Inspector.” Linhardt grinned at Petra. The P.I had started scribbling notes down in her leather bound pocketbook. “I’ve been told you’ll investigate by yourself?” He continued, a cheeky quirk in his grin.

“Yes, Caspar is still having the broken nose from our last case.” Petra sighed. The last case involve chasing down a few Fearghus rioters, and of course P.I Von Bergliez had gone overboard in the pursuit. He would be out of action for the next few days. 

“Well, I can tell that this is going to be a nice quick investigation. You should be able to wrap it up in a day or so,” Linhardt leaned back in his chair.  
  
“And why is that?” Petra asked as she pocketed her notebook.

Linhardt smiled and shrugged, “Because the culprit is always the person you least expect.”

* * *

The rain pelted down onto the roof of the Ford Deluxe police car. Petra sat in the passenger seat, hands in her lap as Senior Constable Von Vestra pulled up the front of Mittelfrank Jazz Bar. From what she could make out from the rain-splattered window, the exterior of the place was nothing interesting - brick with stained glass and a veranda, with a visible alleyway separating the club from a tobacco shop. 

The capital city of Enbarr, to the untrained eye, would seem normal. The streets were tight, with two cars barely being able to squeeze through without scraping their paint on the sides. The local shops were a mix of larger corporations and family owned businesses that had been passed down through generations. The inhabitants of Enbarr kept to themselves and were rather uptight at times, often turning their noses up to anything out of the ordinary. Imagine their surprise when P.I Macneary would show up at their doorsteps flashing her brass badge.

To the trained eye, however, Enbarr was far from normal. The streets that cars couldn’t fit through, killers and smugglers could. Every second day, a new corpse appeared in an unconventional place, or a bootlegging operation would be shut down. The small businesses were constantly under the threat of liquidation as the ratio between them and large corporations grew. The real reason why Enbarr’s inhabitants were so solitude was due to the murders and constant bootlegging.

“This should not take you long. I doubt you would even _ need _Caspar for this.” He muttered quietly as Petra gathered her trench coat straightened out her intricate ponytail.

“What is making you speak this?” The P.I asked, genuinely curious. Perhaps she had misheard the Constable? It wouldn’t be the first time. Petra was not from Fódlan, having moved from her home Brigid only a few years ago. 

Hubert shot her a wicked grin, his teeth glistening against the cigarette clenched between, “Is it not obvious? The culprit is always who you least expect.”

“Why is everyone saying this?” Petra asked as she opened the door.

“Because it’s true,” Hubert grinned, nodding a farewell as Petra stepped out of the car and hurried up to the bouncer outside of Mittelfrank, desperate to get out of the rain.

* * *

Petra soon found herself standing before Mittelfrank's bouncer, a giant of a man with white hair and arms so large they barely fit in his black suit jacket.

"Good evening." His voice was low and short. 

He practically towered over Petra, but the P.I didn't lose her nerve. She reached into her trench coat pocket and pulled out her badge, bearing the crest of the Adrestian Police Force.

"P.I Macneary," Petra introduced herself in a calm voice, looking directly into the bouncer's green eyes, not budging once.

"I can see that," The bouncer grunted. It didn't seem like he intended on moving. 

"I am needing to investigate a crime, and therefore asking you some questions," Petra stated, tapping her boot against the damp concrete ground. “Were you working last night?” She pressed, reaching into her skirt pocket for her notebook.  
  
“Yes.” Was the stoic answer from the bouncer.  
  
“And was there any commotion from anyone?”  
  
“Yes, a drunkard made a scene inside the bar, so the boss ordered me to throw him out. She doesn’t like troublemakers.” Another stoic answer.  
  
“Do you have remembrance of the time this had been happening?” Petra scribbled down a few notes.  
  
“Around midnight. After The Rose finished her set.”  
  
“The Rose?” Petra cocked an eyebrow in confusion, scribbling down the two words as the bouncer nodded.  
  
“Yes. She performs every night and will not sing past twelve.”  
  
“How interesting,” Petra circled the words in her book before continuing.  
  
“Did you have hearing of any commotion outside?” Petra looked the man up and down again. One would have to be a fool to dare challenge him.  
  
“No.”  
  
“I see.” Petra tucked her pen behind her ear and pocketed her notebook. That last statement was something she would need to cross reference. She found it hard to believe that this man would not have heard someone being murdered literally next to him, or even avoided seeing someone dropping off a body.  
  
“You have my gratitude, Mr…”  
  
“Molinaro.” The bouncer grunted.  
  
“May I be having access inside, Mr. Molinaro?” The P.I asked politely. To her surprise, all of her questions for the bouncer had been answered within the space of three minutes. If Caspar were present, the two would still be hounding on, and Petra would know for a fact that she would need to be the middlewoman for any arguing.  
  
Mr Molinaro moved aside to grant her access. 

* * *

Petra slipped off her trench coat and slung it over her shoulder as she entered the club. The loss of it revealed her black pencil skirt and dark purple blouse and a matching scarf, handwoven in Brigid. Being a PI, Petra didn’t wear the traditional Adrestian Police uniform, allowing for more freedom. However, she felt a fair bit of constraint on dressing how she _ truly _wanted to. Being from the tropical climates of Brigid, Petra longed to wear flowing, breathable cotton but Fódlan’s weather wouldn’t permit it. The only signs she had other than her skin and scarf that she was an outsider were her traditional Brigaeli braids in her ponytail, her tattoos and the earring that dangled with green strips of Brigid fabric.

The Mittelfrank Jazz Club was of medium size, lit by candles and two stage lights. Upon the stage sat a grand piano, lid half-open, and red matte drum set. Between the two lay a double bass. 

“My my, now _ here’s _a face I’ve never seen before.”

Petra’s train of thought screeched to a halt as someone spoke her from the bar. Petra locked eyes with a curvaceous woman wearing a tight, green dress and a fur coat draped around her shoulders. She rested her elbows on the counter with a long cigarette holder in her right hand as her light brown eyes focused on Petra.

“Welcome to The Mittelfrank Jazz Club.” Her voice was low and silky.  
  
Petra nodded in acknowledgement, desperately trying to keep her eyes on the woman’s face.  
  
“Pick your poison.” She gestured to the wall of bottles behind her.  
  
Petra recognized a fair few of the wines, beers and spirits. There were even some exotic imports from Dagda and Brigid. If she was not on the clock, she would have absolutely requested for a martini.  
  
“You have my thanks, but I will decline.” Petra reached into her pocket and pulled out her badge to show her.

“P.I Macneary of the Adrestian Police Force. I am being here to investigate a murder.”

Immediately, the woman’s face lit up intrigue. 

“Well well, do you _ really _think it’s appropriate to flash that around? It’s just as dangerous as the pistol strapped to your thigh.”

“I am having the age,” Petra deadpanned, moving closer to the woman. She could feel her pistol, indeed against her thigh, rub against her bare leg. 

“Someone I used to work with always said that age is but a number. To be honest, it’s the only thing I’ll agree with him on,” The woman had lowered her voice and leaned over the bar. Her left index finger was swirling around the rim of a circular glass that contained a gin and tonic, judging from the smell. “You might want to refrain from flashing that thing around, inspector. Especially in _ this _place.”

“And why is that?” Petra asked as the woman took a long drag from her cigarette.

“Oh dear inspector,” The woman let out a soft huff of laughter.

“It’s the Cocktail Party Effect.”

“I am not understanding,” Petra cocked her head to the side, wondering if this was another colloquial term. It was times like this that she almost wished Caspar would be able to interrupt and strike back with some ridiculous line.

“It’s a rather new term. The simple explanation is that your brain will focus on a sound source and filter out everything else,” she explained. “So when you say you are a P.I and wave around that hefty little badge of yours, everyone in this room, no matter how intoxicated, will hone in on you like moths to a flame. You don’t want to give up that P in your title, now do you?”

Petra fell silent, pursing her lips and clenching her fist. This lady was right. Dammit.

“May I be having your name?” Petra asked once she gulped down her mental curses.

“Manuela Casagranda. Voice of the century and owner of the Mittelfrank Jazz Club.” She held out her left hand as the right had was curled around a cigarette. “May I just say, inspector, that you could not have picked a better night to come to Mittelfrank.”

“I am not having the say of time, a murder has happened and here I am standing.” Petra shrugged, keeping her face as stoic as possible.

Manuela’s lip curled, “It’s the first I’ve heard of a murder, that’s for sure.”

Petra reached into her skirt pocket and took out her notebook. “Do you have knowing of the victim murdered?”

“Do you have his name?” Manuela lowered her voice and leaned closer.

“Joshua Victor. He has been inheriting a company from his family and was in Enbarr on business," Petra opened her notebook and read off the name. 

“That doesn’t ring any bells. Also, there are far too many men in here to keep track of, unless they’re above standard.” Manuela winked and moved back to stop leaning off the bar.  
  
“Between myself and The Rose, we can certainly catch any fish in the sea.”  
  
There it was again, this mysterious Rose. Petra hummed in thought.

"Mr Victor was being found outside of your club. Dead." Petra continued, scanning Manuela's face for any sort of reaction.

“There are no brawls allowed in my club. I’d be damned before that happens. Dedue will deal with it. He’s such a good boy.” Manuela cooed as she walked out from behind the bar, taking a drag on her cigarette. "But if he left in one piece, then I'm sure Mr Victor behaved himself while in my club. If he was murdered outside, then that's not my problem." The older woman's voice immediately changed from smooth and silky, to harsh and unforgiving. There was a darkness in her tone that came from the back of her throat, similar to that mysterious dark alleyway right outside.

"A man has had life taken from him, and you are not caring?" Petra raised an eyebrow, plucking the pen from her ear and scribbling down some notes. 

"As I told you, inspector, if he was inside my club, then yes. If not, then frankly I don't give a damn,” Manuela’s voice was curt, a far cry from the woman she was behind the bar.  
  
Petra took a deep breath, “Ms. Casagranda, all respect will be due, but you have knowing that I am trying to solve this murder, and I am needing all the information that is possible. The reports do not have knowing about this occurrence, but once they do, they will cast slander upon your club, and upon your name.”  
  
With that, Manuela’s eyebrows quirked up, “You threaten me, Inspector?”  
  
“I am doing no such thing, all I am saying is that if you are knowing anything, please do be in touch. I can be assuring you of my diligence in protecting any slander from the pressers,” Petra flicked to the back of her notebook and handed a business card to Manuela.  
  
“...Of course, Inspector,” Manuela nodded in understanding, her lip curling into a grin again.  
  
“You have my gratitude, Ms. Casagranda,” Petra pocketed her book again and started to twirl her pen between her fingers.  
  
“Will you be staying for tonight’s show?” Manuela asked, breathing out more smoke.  
  
“Indeed, but I do not have understanding of where to be seated,” Petra looked around the club, noticing that ninety percent of the tables were occupied.  
  
“Take the table in front of the stage, just to the left.” Manuela used her cigarette holder to gesture to the small table with one chair.  
  
“It’s reserved for me, but I will be tickling the ivories tonight. It’s all yours, inspector.”  
  
“O-Oh,” Petra’s eyebrows skyrocketed. The table was _ dangerously _ close to the stage, with barely a hair’s length away from the microphone. Petra also noticed that there was now a man with spiky, ash blonde hair sitting behind the drums, wearing a tuxedo. Petra couldn’t help but notice that the man had a rather boyish face, reminiscent of Caspar. The double bass was now in the hands of a stoic woman with a slick dark bob cut and cigarette sticking out of her mouth. Next to this woman was a round man with a jovial face rather impressive moustache, and he clutched at a trumpet.  
  
“I suggest you get comfortable now. The show is about to start, and The Rose is not one for stragglers,” Manuela winked and sauntered up to the stage with her gin and tonic in her left hand.  
  
Petra bit her lip and wiped the sudden sweat from her palms. She moved towards the tiny table and sat down awkwardly. Despite the size of the club’s interior, the place was packed. Men in suits sat at the tables, but there were also a fair amount of women surprisingly. They flitted about in groups, reminding Petra of birds that migrated south to Brigid. The ambience consisted of glasses clinking, cigarettes lighting and people chatting. Petra often thought that when everyone was talking at once, it sounded like a new language. One that no one could truly understand or study.  
  
Once again, Petra was yanked from her thoughts as Manuela started to play a few notes. The next thing Petra heard was the sound of brushes on the snare drum and long notes coming from the double bass. The piano notes turned from singular notes into chords as the slow beat became more prominent for only a few seconds. The man with the trumpet started to blow, and filthy, raw notes. Even with a mute in the bell, the sound thundered through the club, causing Petra to visibly wince at the volume.

The quartet’s pseudo tune then came to a stop. The drummer sizzled on the cymbals, the trumpeter’s note fizzled out and Manuela’s fingers danced a quick cadenza up the ivory keys.

The stage lights dimmed and were replaced by a spotlight that shone against the red velvety curtains behind the band.  
  
Then the curtains parted as the band picked up the beat again.  
  
And Petra’s mouth dropped to the floor. A woman stood on the stage, and it was without a doubt the most beautiful woman Petra had ever seen in her life. Her years of training at police academies, learning the language of Fódlan, and keeping a stoic expression while on the job could not have prepared her for this.  
  
The woman had a fair complexion, with long brown hair that cascaded down her shoulders in waves. Her eyes glistened a stunning emerald green, and her lips were painted a dark red. One hand was resting on her hip, and the other hand nursed a cigarette. She opened her mouth, [ starting to sing ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5i4jCS92v8) . Her tone was rich and velvety, just like the dress she wore; a dark red velvet, clung to her voluptuous body.   
  
Petra immediately put two and two together: This was The Rose.  
  
The crowd clearly had a more vocal reaction than Petra; there was wolf whistling and jeering from both men and women alike. Petra was completely transfixed as the singer sauntered up to the microphone, lyrics of not sleeping a wink and drinking black coffee washing over the audience.  
  
Petra felt as though she was watching The Rose perform from behind a glass barrier. It was very clear after the first few phrases that this singer was a master of her craft. She had such control over her phrasing and vocal ad libs, clearly not even needing the microphone from how strong and consistent her voice projected throughout the club. Petra wondered for a brief second if the microphone was even turned on or just there for show.  
  
The Rose continued to sing and walk around the stage, heels clacking. Every now and then she would catch a gaze in the audience and interact with a simple wink or eyebrow quirk. Petra couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy crash in her stomach.  
  
All the thoughts about Joshua Victor, the most average murder victim, were throw out of Petra’s mind. She couldn’t care less about the emotionless bouncer Mr Molinaro, or the moody club owner Manuela. Petra could not tear her eyes away from The Rose. She felt as though if She were to stop singing, that all hell would break loose. More murders would plague the city, and then an _ actual _ disease would plague the city.  
  
When The Rose finished her first song, the crowd went wild. All refined elements of suit-wearing businessmen and respectful women were not present as they applauded and screamed.

The Rose closed her mouth and cast a grin out to the sea of adoring fans. She gave a few nods to those producing the more prominent sounds. Once again, The Cocktail Party Effect was in full bloom.  
  
The Rose took a breath started her [ second song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJVACQHIn1E) , and it was clearly a crowd favourite judging from the more frequent wolf whistles. For this song, she glided over to the piano and leaned against the side, smiling as Manuela’s finger graced over the ivory. This song left more room for the band to improvise, and while they did so, The Rose took long drags from her cigarette.  
  
Then, it happened. The Rose locked eyes with Petra. She breathed out the smoke, slowly, with a sensual smile and Petra felt her heart stop, as if _ she _ had just been shot and stabbed. Petra could imagine the glass barrier rumble, attempting to break and separate the boundary between the two women.  
  
Petra clenched her fists under the table, feeling her knuckles turn white. She ignored the jeers as the [ third song started ](https://youtu.be/fIXAT6fGUw4?t=51) with her singing solo. For this number, The Rose actually got off the stage and walked around the tables, interacting with various members of the audience. A common habit was to pull on a few of the men’s ties and drink from the women’s glasses.  
  
When it came to Petra’s table, however, all physical boundaries were gone. That glass barrier had shattered into thousands of pieces as The Rose sat in Petra’s lap, singing something about a drink of gin. Up close, The Rose had a very dainty face. Her eyes were rather oval shaped in contrast to her pointed nose. 

Not that Petra cared, she was completely and utterly hypnotized as The Rose leaned over and with two red-painted fingernails walked up Petra’s stiff arm to her shoulder. Petra’s face was of a volcanic temperature, her heart booming in her ears as she realised that The Rose was a breath away from her face. Those wicked fingers continued their journey up Petra’s neck to her ears. Petra was so numb and warm she didn’t even notice at the Rose had plucked the ballpoint pen from behind her ear and dragged it lazily across Petra’s jaw line. Petra turned to stone, and could hear a smooth giggle coming from The Rose’s throat. That was indeed The Cocktail Party Effect in motion, because everything else had been filtered out of Petra’s mind.  
  
The pen ended up under her chin as a direction for Petra to look up. She let the pen guide her, and immediately started shaking as The Rose leaned in, her red lips getting dangerously close to Petra’s own.   
  
But then, she pulled away, and Petra wanted to scream and swear as loud as she could in Brigaeli, but she held in those desires like the walls of a dam. She didn’t even notice The Rose standing up from her lap and sticking the pen back behind her right ear.  
  
The Rose glided back to the stage with a crashing wave of applause behind her. The band finished off the song as The Rose got to the stage and, without looking back, disappeared behind the velvet curtain.  
  
Petra, still stiff as stone, was unable to comprehend what had just happened. Her face was warm, her palms were damp with sweat, her stomach was clenched - it felt like she had just run the length of the capital. The band began to pack down as the applause fizzled out with some more wolf whistles and howls, but slowly humanity seemed to returned to the occupants of The Mittelfrank Jazz Club.  
  
The P.I blinked slowly, coming out of her trance as the jagged ambience of chair scraping and that ubiquitous language of overlapping voices started to thrum throughout the club. Petra looked down at her knuckles, noticing how her own short nails had actually left small cuts in her palms. Her knees were shaking, not from The Rose’s weight, but from her presence. She sat there, in Petra’s lap, and played with Petra’s pen.  
  
The P.I wanted nothing more than to pass out then and there, but she remembered that she was still on the clock. There was a dead man back at the morgue who needed to have justice served, and Petra was his avenger. Petra looked around, instantly honing in on a door to the right of the club labeled ‘STAFF ONLY.’ She then shook her head, forcing herself back into a professional mindset, ready to continue the case in order to deliver the justice that dull soul deserved.  
  
However, a thought crossed Petra’s mind: if Joshua Victor was already dead, then he would not complain about his justice being served later than expected.  
  
**  
** ****


	2. Noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petra conducts further investigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't endorse smoking. I do, however, endorse being a massive lesbian.

**Twelfth day of Red Wolf Moon, 1939**

Noise was a strange concept. It could mean many different things: someone knocking a glass off a table and hearing the smash could be classified as noise, so could hearing a song on the radio that wasn’t to one’s taste in music. The act of a car screeching to a halt, a gunshot and even a scream of pain is considered noise.   
  
To Petra, the definition of noise was the blood thundering in her ears like some sort of timpani, her heart booming inside her rib cage causing shockwaves through her body, and the shaking breaths that past through her incredibly dry lips. Her vision was swimming, but the haze that misted through her mind was slowly parting as her ears tuned to the world around her again. This was probably due to the stage lights illuminating again.   
  
As if she had been pulled from underwater, she identified a new source of noise. It was the gaggle of men standing at the door that read ‘STAFF ONLY’ to the side of the club became incredibly prominent. They looked mad, eyes wide with lust and mouths open panting. A few had bouquets of flowers in their hands, and to Petra’s surprise, their wallets too. The drummer and trumpeter from the band now acted as a barrier between the door and what Petra could only guess were The Rose’s adoring fans.    
  
While that route seemed like a riot waiting to happen, the other clubgoers were trickling out through the actual entrance. Petra noticed many of this demographic were pulling out their wallets with glee.   
  
The P.I stood up from her table, albeit shakily and tucked the chair in neatly. The last half an hour of her life had been a geyser of emotions. The Rose was stunningly beautiful, and her voice was like none other that Petra had ever heard.

Manuela stepped down from the stage and stretched out the fingers of her right hand. In her left was that same gin and tonic from before.   
  
“Would it  _ kill  _ her to sing that blues a little faster?” The club owner muttered to herself, only audible enough for Petra’s keen ears to hear.   
  
“I-I am thinking that the blue song was of...perfect speed,” Petra voiced out loud in some desperate attempt to kickstart her vocal chords.   
  
“Inspector, are you playing favourites?” Manuela teased, nails clinking against the old fashioned glass. (that’s literally what it’s called…)   
  
“I know The Rose is certainly popular, but try to think from the perspective of my delicate fingers,” Manuela wiggled them in front of Petra, a glistening red that caught the stage lights.   
  
“You are having much skill for the piano, Ms Casagranda. Admiration,” Petra tried her best to produce her usual calm tone of voice.   
  
“Oh Inspector, you’re too kind,” Manuela cooed with a sickly sweet smile.   
  
Pera’s eyes flitted over to the long line that now started to form at the club’s entrance, “Are they waiting to leave?”   
  
Manuela followed the P.I’s gaze and shrugged, “They’re probably in line for a signed headshot. If I’m honest, those things sure do bring in a lotta profit.”   
  
The club owner then chuckled and took a swig of her gin, “But between you and me, my headshots are worth double.”   
  
Petra swallowed as her eyes flickered to Manuela’s face, “May I be asking The Rose some questions?”   
  
“I see you’ve been pricked by her thorns,” Manuela’s tone of voice was mischievous, but Petra could see the older woman resisting the urge to roll her eyes.   
  
Quickly, Petra tightened her fist and started to counter, “Ms Casagranda, I will be reminding you of the man dead in my morgue that had discovery outside of your cl-”   
  
“Yeah yeah, I know Inspector. I was just teasing,” Manuela droned, wafting away Petra’s reasoning like a cloud.   
  
“You can head through the staff door,” she jabbed her thumb over her shoulder to where the commotion of men stood. The two male musicians were doing their best to fend off the hoard.    
  
“Say I sent you, just don’t flash your badge. You may as well set the joint on fire otherwise.”   
  
Manuela sauntered away with a small sigh passing from her lips.   
  
Petra gulped and stood upright, marching over to the commotion with her trench coat slung over her shoulders.   
  
The two musicians were starting to struggle as the adoring yet primal fans of The Rose. It was situations like this Petra thanked the Flame Spirits of Brigid for her petit physique, she weaved through the gaggle of men, easily a few heads smaller than them, right up to the musicians blocking the door.

Upon seeing Petra approach, the drummer instantly stiffened.   
  
“Sorry lady, y’cant pass,” His voice was firm and he crossed his arms.   
  
“Ms Casagranda is sending me,” Petra responded, knowing her small stature would make them doubt her so she compensated with her chest puffed out.   
  
“A lotta people say that, toots,” one of the fans, a bald headed man in a green suit, jeered next to her.   
  
Petra scowled, reaching into her pocket to pull out the badge, but the second her fingers curled around the bass finishing, the trumpet player interrupted.   
  
“Come on in. Randolph, keep a hold of these clowns for me,” he stepped in front of the men, acting like a blockage as he opened the door and beckoned Petra forward with a grin.   
  
“I’ll try, Alois, but these dogs don't know how to heel!” Randolph snapped at the men, who had started howling in protest and shaking their fists.   
  
Petra slipped through the open door like a snake and pivoted on her left foot to take in the new area. She stood in an incredibly narrow hallway, nowhere near as lavish as the velvet curtains and plush walls of the main club. Directly in front of her was an archway leading into a kitchen. Further down the hallway to her left were two doors, both with golden plates stuck to the front with names printed in black. Petra couldn’t make out the names, so she turned to the trumpet player who had stepped in after her and shut the door.

* * *

  
  
“You are having my gratitude,” Petra nodded and adjusted her scarf. She held in her tiny flicker of claustrophobia as she noticed the two of them could barely fit in the hallway.   
  
“Not a worry, miss! I recognised you from the crowd. The Rose seemed to fancy you over that sorry bunch,” the man jabbed a sausage finger to the door that he shut behind the two. The howls of protests were muffled through the door due to the acoustic absorption, but still ever present.   
  
At his words, Petra gulped and felt her cheeks flare a crimson again.   
  
“So, what brings you here? I thought the headshot sales were at the front of the club? They’re like twenty bucks each, but a personalised message is like fifty, I think?” He scratched at his moustache in thought.   
  
Petra’s eyebrows skyrocketed and she quickly shook her head, “Oh! N-no you are having a misunderstanding!” she reached into her pocket and whipped her badge.   
  
“I am P.I Macneary, my reason is of difference! I am needing to investigate a murder.”   
  
The man’s eyes widened, “You? A Private Inspector? Forgive me miss, you look far from it, but I take your word! That badge is as real as they get,” he stuck out his hand.   
  
“I should know, I work as a constable for the Seiros union during the day. My name is Alois.”   
  
“A pleasure to be meeting you, Mr Alois,” Petra shook Alois’s hand with her free one, the other still holding her badge in a vice grip. The man seemed completely harmless - boyish, even - but having learned that he was a constable instantly peaked Petra’s interest.   
  
“Do you have curiosity about the murder?” she asked casually as they walked down the hallway.   
  
“That Victor fellow? I’d be lying if I didn't . The Adrestrian Police Force may be handling that poor soul, but that doesn’t mean the Union will get involved eventually,” Alois shrugged, “You know how it works, when you have the blackened behind bars, we swoop in and start the prosecution.”   
  
“How are you knowing his name?” Petra asked, ignoring the statements Alois made. She knew how the system worked like the back of her hand.   
  
Alois’ guffawed, “Inspector! Am I a suspect to you?!”   
  
“Everyone is,” It was Petra’s turn to shrug, remaining stoic as ever.   
  
“You  _ really  _ think a member of The Union would murder some sorry sod? I may as well hang myself with a bottle of Jack in my hand,” Alois puffed out his chest as a defence mechanism.   
  
“You have not been answering my query, Mr Alois,” Petra continued, keeping her voice at a steady volume as to not make a racket like Alois was.   
  
He grunted, “I know the lad’s younger brother, is all. He’s an artist from Alliance territory, not really interested in the family business.”   
  
“Did you perform last night?” Petra swapped her badge for her notebook and removed her pen from behind her ear.   
  
“Yes, I was playing last night. We all were except Manuela. She only played tonight because Jeritza is out of town.”

Jeritza? What a strange name. "What does this Jeritza be doing?" Petra asked.

"He's a combat instructor for The Union, the fellow regularly travels to teach," Alois explained.   
  
“And do you have remembrance of seeing Ms Casagranda last night?” Petra pressed, not once breaking eye contact with Alois, who towered over her.   
  
“She was at the bar with another woman and Mr Victor. I’ve never seen that woman in my life,” Alois answered earnestly as they slowly continued down the hallway.   
  
“We played the gig, it went fine as usual, and then Randolph and I did our usual chore of fending off those clowns who froth over The Rose. When we finally shooed them away, we entered the door and walked down to the greenroom to grab our gear and leave…” He trailed off, a wistful expression clouding his face.   
  
“Come to think of it, as I was leaving through the back door, I  _ did  _ see another figure in The Rose’s dressing room with her.”   
  
“Is that being so?” Petra furiously scribbled down Alois’ exact words, thankful for her fluent penmanship.   
  
“Yes, but I didn’t get his face. The window was shut, illuminated by the lights inside the dressing room,” Alois continued, stroking his moustache again.   
  
“Randolph saw it too, we carpool, y’see.”   
  
“Is that all of your knowing?” Petra asked.   
  
“Yes, Inspector,” Alois answered as they stopped out the front of the door on the right. The dark oak was splintering in certain places, but the glass doorknob stayed in tact. Muffled humming could be heard from behind the door, and Petra recognised it as the second song The Rose had sung that evening.   
  
The gold plate was vibrant, and had a name in black, cursive letters: D. Arnault.   
  
“You have my thanks for your support, Mr Alois,” Petra nodded with a small grin, once again swapping out her notebook for her Adrestian Police Force badge.   
  
“Anytime, Inspector,” Alois tipped his head in a polite salute, then knocked three on the door.   
  
The humming faded, and a sultry voice wafted through the door, albeit still muffled.    
  
“Who is it?”    
  
“Rosie? You’ve got a visitor.”   
  
A few moments later, the door opened, and the smell of rose perfume wafted into the hallway, tickling her nose. In the door frame stood The Rose, and Petra’s heart crashed against her ribcage as she drank in the sight of the singer wearing a flowing silk robe that revealed a lacy black bra. Petra could feel her face flush furiously again while she forced her eyes to keep above The Rose’s chest.   
  
“Oh Alois, is your age catching up to you? Not able to fend ‘em off anymore?” The Rose teased, relishing in the chagrin that etched itself onto Alois’ expression.   
  
“Watch it, kid!” Alois pouted and stepped back to push Petra forward.   
  
“This is a very special visitor. I’ll leave you two alone,” he quickly smiled at Petra before marching down the hallway, cracking his knuckles to ready himself against the onslaught of devotees.    
  
The second Alois opened and closed the door behind him to leave, Petra was thrown into a new type of noise: silence. She heard the expression from Hubert about a ‘deafening silence,’ and was now experiencing it in person, right in front of The Rose.   
  
“Well, aren’t  _ you  _ a fresh sight,” The Rose smirked, leaning against the door frame and gazed at Petra with half-lidded eyes, glistening like gemstones.   
  
Petra swallowed, ending the drought in her throat, and raised her hand shakily with her badge. She ignored the fact that The Rose was taller.    
  
“Good evening, I am P.I Macneary of the Adrestian Police Force,” Petra’s introduction was the worst she had ever done it, and she mentally kicked herself.   
  
The Rose raised a delicate eyebrow, “A private inspector? Well now, that is certainly a surprise,” she grinned and rested a hand on her hip. The movement caused the bottom of the robe to shift, revealing her toned, stocking thigh.    
  
Petra could feel the perspiration on her temple, but she did her best to remain stoic.   
  
“You are not being deceived,” she tapped her fingernail twice against the brass her badge.   
  
The Rose raised an eyebrow as he lips hardened, “Well yes, but you can’t deny that you’re not unique in your field,” she scanned Petra body up and down, then relaxed her face into a smirk.   
  
“A doll like you? It’s almost adorable.”   
  
Petra felt the drought form in her throat again at the words. This was ridiculous, why was she so weak to the words?   
  
“My presence is being due to the murder last night. Do you have awareness?” Petra continued as best she could.   
  
“Is the Archbishop religious?” The Rose drawled in a sarcastic tone as she turned on her heel and slinked back into the room.   
  
“Please, do step inside, Inspector.”   
  


* * *

The dressing room consisted of a vanity on the right wall, a wardrobe against the back and a chaise lounger underneath the window on the left wall. The curtains were drawn, but fluttering to indicate the window was open. The walls were plastered with different posters of silhouetted women. There were signed flowers and love letters scattered about the room and green carpeted floor. 

“Have a seat,” The Rose motioned to the chaise lounge, a plum velvet in colour.  
  
Petra shuffled over and awkwardly sat on the very edge with her legs together.   
  
“You have my gratitude,” Petra managed to get out of her throat while she pocketed her badge and exchange it for the notebook for the umpteenth time in her career.  
  
The Rose sat down on the plush stool at her vanity, crossing her right leg over her left while she plucked a cigarette from the packet atop the white varnish.  
“May I offer you one, Inspector?” she asked, holding out the cigarette with her right hand.  
  
“I must be declining,” Petra shook her head. She was convinced that herself, Caspar and Linhardt were the only two people in the entirety of Enbarr who didn’t smoke. The practice was not common in Brigid - almost taboo.   
  
The Rose shrugged and stuck the cigarette between her lips to light up with a zippo.   
  
Petra’s eyes flickered around the dressing room. She only just noticed a small clock on the wall that read 12:03am. She took a deep breath and muttered another quick prayer to the Flame Spirit to get her through the rest of the night.   
  
“May I be asking you some questions about the murder?” she began, taking the pen from behind her ear and turning to a fresh page in her notebook.  
  
“That’s why invited you in,” The Rose grinned, smoke curling from her parted lips and teeth.  
  
“May I be having your...name?” Petra winced, cursing herself for forgetting the simple word.  
  
The singer raised an eyebrow, “Well if it’s an official police statement, who am I to decline?” She extended her left hand, golden fingernails catching the dim lights.  
  
“It’s Dorothea Arnault. The Rose is a stage name I used to protect myself, so I would appreciate if you didn’t tell anyone outside of the force.”  
  
Petra’s heart ricocheted inside her chest as she extended her right hand, ignoring the strange practice of Dorothea.

“That is a lovely name, Ms Arnault. Please do not be worrying, of course you will be having anony-privacy,” Petra once again mentally kicked herself - her comprehension was failing miserably.  
  
Dorothea chuckled, “Why, thank you so much. You have no idea how hard it is being a singer, looking the way I do,” she moved a lock of hair behind her ear to reveal a set of elaborate golden earring that dangled, a turquoise gem encrusted within.  
  
_‘You have no idea how it feels to be in the presence of a woman looking the way you do,’ _Petra thought to herself, thankful that her thoughts were in Brigaeli. If she were to say that out loud, she would certainly never hear the end of it.  
  
“Ms Arnault, do you have knowing of the victim?” Petra continued, writing out Dorothea’s name in the neatest possible way.  
  
Re-crossing her legs, Dorothea chuckled again, “I can’t say I know him well, but I’d rather get to know _you _better, Inspector.”  
  
Petra blanched, her pen trembling in her grip. Was this all a game to Dorothea? She seemed so confident and able to wrap anyone around those wicked little fingers of hers, “You must be having my decision to decline, Ms Arnault. I am to be having answers for this man’s death. Anything you may have knowing of will be greatly appreciated.”   
  
“AW, you’re no fun,” Dorothea pouted and pursed her lips around the cigarette.  
  
“Yes, I knew Mr Victor. He dropped by to see me after last night’s show,” the singer answered almost instantly.   
  
Petra raised an eyebrow. She never said his name, “What relationship did you be having with Mr Victor?”  
  
Dorothea’s lip curled and she wafted away the concern in Petra’s voice with her left hand, “Oh please, Inspector, he’s a fan. _All _men are fans. It gets quite pestilent at times if I’m honest.”  
  
Petra shorthanded statement and then stopped. She looked up at Dorothea and felt her throat tighten, “Do you have marriage, Ms Arnault?”  
  
With that, Dorothea snorted and burst into laughter. It was almost like singing except for the irregular breathing and fizzle on each final sequence, “Inspector, you humour me!”  
  
“There is no humour in this question,” Petra responded, slightly confused as Dorothea’s laughter died down with a sigh.  
  
“The answer is no, I am not married. No one suitable has crossed my path, unfortunately,” she started to twirl a lock of hair and gaze at herself in the mirror.   
Petra held in a sigh of relief and made sure to jot down Dorothea’s status as ‘single.’  
  
“Patience is a wonderful virtue that I don’t particularly have, so I take it upon myself to always scan the crowd for fresh faces and potential spouses,” Dorothea continued to look at herself in the mirror with a wistful expression on her face.  
  
“You are having many fans, judging from the barrage of men outside,” Petra commented, her grip on her pen tightening.  
  
“That’s certainly true, and once again, Mr Victor was just a fan. No more no less,” Dorothea reaffirmed her statement, looking at Petra from the mirror.  
  
“Where did you see Mr Victor?” Petra continued.  
  
“Well I first saw him in the crowd at last night’s show,” Dorothea explained, letting more smoke wisp past her lips.  
  
“It was a fine show with my usual pianist, Jeritza. Manuela only fills in when he’s out of town.”  
  
Petra’s brow furrowed as she jotted down the name. Then, she remembered what the bouncer, Mr Molinaro, had told her. “Is there truth in saying you do not perform past midnight?”  
  
Dorothea rested her cheek against her hand on the vanity, eyes glittering, “Of course, Inspector. A star has to know her limit. Albeit, it frustrates some fans. Like Mr Victor, for example.”  
  
“Please, be continuing,” Petra turned a fresh page, ready to scribe as much as she could.  
  
“After the show finished and the clock struck twelve, I retreated here, my humble,” Dorothea flicked her right hand out as a gesture.  
  
“The rest of my night is spent signing pictures, as I do every Thursday evening. It’s therapeutic in a strange way,” she shrugged.  
  
“Someone comes by and collects the autographs when I’m done and then goes to sell them. The rest of my night would _normally _involve me going home to relax. However, there was a knock at my dressing room door last night…”   
  
Dorothea narrowed her eyes in thought, “There stood Mr Victor. What concerns me is that he managed to get past Alois, Jeritza _and _Randolph.”  
  
“That does have strangeness,” Petra mumbled. Alois did not mention Jeritza with him and Randolph...  
  
“Indeed, He introduced himself and gave the usual spiel about how radiating I am and how I’ve changed his life. I’ve heard it all before,” Dorothea sighed and rolled her eyes before continuing, “He asks for a headshot, so I tell him that they’re at the club entrance, but then he…”  
  
“He what?” Petra asked as Dorothea’s voice fizzled out.  
  
“He...had the audacity to grab me.”  
  
Petra felt her ears ignite in a hot fury. Her pen was on the verge of snapping in two from her death grip. White noise flared up inside her ears as her eyes narrowed. Unfortunately, men grabbing women was far too common in Fódlan for Petra’s liking.  
  
“Now don’t get me wrong, Inspector, I can take care of myself but this man didn’t look the type. I guess you truly can’t trust anyone, no matter how mundane they may seem,” Dorothea added on quickly, tapping her cigarette three times to remove the fallout.  
  
“Manuela heard the commotion and helped me throw him out, thank goodness,” The Rose continued and re-crossed her legs.  
  
“And that was the last time I saw him, Inspector.”  
  
“I..see,” Petra finished taking notes and flicked to the back to take out a business card. After taking a deep breath, she continued, “Ms Arnault, if you are hearing or having memories about anything else that happened, please do not have the hesitation to be contacting me.”  
  
“How sweet of you, Inspector,” Dorothea extended her left hand to take the business card, and Petra managed to get waft of her perfume in the process.  
  
“Trust and believe I will definitely contact you if something comes up,” Green eyes wandered over to the clock, that now read 12:43am.  
  
“Goodness me, where the time go? It’s _way _past my bedtime,” Dorothea tapped a golden fingernail to her chin, glancing over at Petra with a small smile.  
  
“Well, they do say time flies when you’re having fun,” the lilt in her voice made Petra’s blood race to her head.  
  
“You have my biggest gratitude for having answers for my questions, Ms Arnault,” Petra nodded mechanically and pocketed her notebook with shaky hands.   
  
“Oh please, Inspector, the pleasure is all mine,” Dorothea flicked out her right hand and looked at her vanity, “Please, allow me to give you a gift.”  
  
“Th-that is not having nece...necess…” Petra’s voice fizzled out as Dorothea slid a fresh headshot along her vanity and plucked Petra’s pen from her grip.   
  
“Who am I making this out to? Surely your name isn’t actually Inspector, now is it?” Dorothea twirled the pen in her left hand effortlessly.   
  
Completely frozen, the P.I gulped and averted her eyes while crashing her knees together, “...My name is Petra.”  
  
With a soft giggle, The Rose wrote out Petra’s name on the headshot, adding her signature down below with a small flourish.  
  
“Just one more finishing touch,” Dorothea brought the headshot to her face and pressed her lips against the bottom right corner. The strategic move left a lipstick mark just above her own signature.  
  
“Perfect.”  
  
Within that moment, Petra’s definition of noise had amplified. Now, it was akin to the volcanic eruption happening inside her trembling body. Petra was convinced that her insides were exploding with molten lava, and oozing through her veins which inflamed underneath her skin. Hot, thick blood swirled around her head, blasting her ears with further white noise with each beat of her heart. Her nostrils were working overtime to continue a steady airflow to her brain, and thankfully it was enough to fuel an instruction through her nervous system to take the outstretched picture from Dorothea’s hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorothea's autograph is based off this fanart: https://www.instagram.com/p/B3C-xPIjnGx/ please follow his artist their creations are stunning.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'll update when I can. hmu on twitter @DValkyrieMusic


	3. Making Soundwaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Title: The Caspar & Petra Variety Hour.

**Thirteenth day of Red Wolf Moon, 1939 **

Petra was not a mathematician. She hated the subject and everything it stood for. However, the simplicity of throwing two punches then dodging was well within her comfort zone, and far above her capability. Petra stood in the Adrestian Police Force’s gym, her hands encased in mitts as she jabbed at the leather punching bag.  
Boxing was a dance Petra had mastered. Striking jabs, fancy footwork and a laser focus really helped clear her head of all the theories she had for her cases.   
Contrary to what Linhardt had said, this particular case would surely take longer than expected. There were so many accounts Petra had collected for Joshua Victor’s case in the one night she had started her investigation, and there were already way too many suspects. The P.I’s brain was already full with fog just thinking about all the possibilities, hence the boxing session.   
  
Petra’s strikes were swift and sharp, and cleared the fog in her head. The agility she possessed made up for the non-existent agility of Petra’s partner, P.I Caspar Von Bergliez. 

  
“Yeah, sock ‘em good!” He cheered from the bench along the wall. His voice was still nasally, due to the bandage strapped across his recovering broken nose, and his right eye was in a squinted with an angry bruise that purpled around.   
  
Caspar had taken the job when his brother fulfilled his father’s position of Minister of Military Affairs. Being the second son, he could pretty much whatever he wanted. With a sense of justice that rivalled any lawyer, Caspar was a perfect fit for a private inspector. He was honest and blunt, and had a natural talent for sniffing out lies. However, his raw abilities would be tested by his hotheadedness, irrational thinking and lack of subtlety.   
In steps Petra, who is level headed and rational. The two were pretty much a match made in heaven when it came to solving murders. They balanced out each other so well it was almost terrifying.   
  
Petra landed two more punches before stopping to catch her breath. Her mitts to hips and braid stick on her neck, she turned to face Caspar.   
  
“Do you have understanding from my notes?” she panted, noticing her notebook in Caspar’s right hand.   
  


“Ah, I should probably read that,” Caspar looked sheepishly down at the notebook and proceeded to flick it open.  
  
Petra rolled her eyes and shifted her bodyweight onto her right hip, “Caspar, this is having importance. Please be lending your knowledge.”   
  
“Okay okay! Let’s find this blackened bastard!” he flicked through the pages, both his normal and bruised eye squinting as he read.   
  
Petra rolled her eyes and continued to throw punches at the bag. She was working off a lot of emotions from her previous investigation endeavours. 

  
In all honesty, there was something that bothered Petra more than the theories. On one hand, there weren’t too many suspects. On the other, it seemed like _ anyone _ at that bar could have murdered Joshua Victor. Linhardt and Hubert’s words still stuck in her head; ‘The culprit is always the one you least expect.’ While this _ could _be true, all the suspects were fairly -

“Mediocre,” Caspar jabbed his thumb on a particular page, Yanking Petra from her thoughts.  
  
“Excuse me?” Petra stopped her punching and turned to face Caspar, ignoring the sweat that was trickling from her temple.   
  
“This Molinaro guy’s answers, they’re pretty mediocre,” he turned the notebook around and showed Petra.   
  
“He _ really _ didn’t hear this guy getting stabbed and shot? I’m calling a bluff.”   
  
“Ah! Yes!” Petra instantly remembered, “I was meaning to run this by you. He has been saying he was not hearing anything.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s bullshit,” Caspar’s knee started to bounce. “There is no way on this earth that he didn’t hear anything. Let’s go gettim!”   
  
Caspar stood up abrasively, and Petra double back, “Caspar be halting! The jazz club is not even having...is not open yet!”   
  
“Ah...you’re right,” Caspar slumped back onto the bench, wincing as the impact snapped through his body.   
  
“Besides, you are not in the correct condition to be, uh...getting him,”   
  
That was something else. Manuela’s attitude. She seemed so casual about the whole scenario.   
  
“I am wanting your opinion on this Ms Casagranda. She is being the club owner,” Petra bounced up and down on the balls of her feet and threw some more punches at the bag as she spoke.   
  
“She was saying that she will not be having any disturbances in her club. And Mr Molinaro is the one who is throwing out those who are doing the disturbance.”   
  
“Well yeah? No offense Petra, but there aren’t many women who enjoy getting their hands dirty,” Caspar shrugged.   
  
“So Mr Molinaro threw out our victim, what happens next?”   
  
“That is where I am being stuck,” Petra jumped back from the bag with a scowl on her face. What _ did _ happen after Joshua was thrown out of the club? What was the real reason he got thrown out in the first place? There were so many possibilities, and not to mention where Manuela, Alois and Dorothea stood in the-   
  
...Dorothea. The Rose. She was certainly something. Petra couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was this aura around the woman that clearly radiated mystery. Petra found that her automatic jabs at the bag were rather limp now, and her train of thought had changed track to Dorothea’s silky brown hair, her glistening emerald eyes, her ruby lips that were always quirked into a teasing smirk…How Petra had an autographed headshot sitting on her bedside table that reeked of elegant perfume. 

These thoughts swirled around Petra like the thick haze that was that very damned perfume. It consumed her so deeply that Petra found herself not even hearing Caspar calling out her name.  
  
“...tra? Petra!” It was only when Caspar shook Petra’s shoulder that she resurfaced.   
  
“Please take my apologies, Caspar. There are many thoughts going on,” she mumbled and stretched out her legs.   
  
“Ah don’t even worry! We’ll figure it out! That’s why we’re the top P.Is in the force!” Caspar brandished a fist in the air with a smug but triumphant grin on his face.   
  
Petra couldn’t help but grin. Caspar’s optimism was infectious. Petra sat down next to her partner and yanked the string of her boxing mitts with her teeth to release the knots.

  
“Do you wonder what is going through someone’s head when they are being murdered?” Petra asked, completely out of the blue as she looked down at the ground.   
  
Caspar hummed in thought, “I guess the first thing that would go through their head is ‘oh shit, what the fuck.’ But then it could lead to something like…’why me? What did I do?’ Or they could be too shocked to even think anything.”   
  
Petra nodded. Caspar had shining moments of wisdom occasionally.   
  
“This is probably not the best thing to say out loud but...Mr Victor is literally the most boring murder victim I’ve ever come across,” Caspar continued, moving to rub at his black eye but Petra quickly swatted his hand away.   
  
“I am in agreement, but that is not making this case any less important,” she looked over at Caspar and bit the bottom of her lip, “Mr Victor has lost his life, his very soul. In Brigid, when someone is having passing, we often honor their achievements through a service, then offer the body to the Pit of Rebirth, in hopes for having a safe reincarnation.”   
  
Caspar blinked, “The pit of rebirth? That sounds painful.”   
  
“If the person who is having passed was being kind in life, they would have an opportunity to be reincarnated as a tree or bird,” Petra explained, a small smile forming on her face as it always did when she talked about her homeland.   
  
It had taken a few months for Petra to adjust to Fodlan. The climate was a drastic change to the humid tropics of Brigid, and the people were far less welcome to the idea of swimming in their country due to this. Petra had been

  
“How about we pay Bernie a visit? Surely she would be done with her investigations into this Victor guy’s last expenses,” Caspar suggested as he started to comb his hair to the right side as to cover his bruised eye as best as he could.   
  
“That is sounding like a plan. I am hoping that Bernie is able to help.”   
  


* * *

  
  
After Petra showered and Caspar went for a checkup from Linhardt, The two found themselves on the third level of the Adrestian police force building outside the office that belonged to Records Investigator Bernadetta Von Varely. The timid woman had requested a private office when she started working at the force, despite sharing the entire floor with the Chief of Police’s top team that included Petra, Caspar, Linhardt and Hubert. The group had jokingly called themselves the Black Eagle Strike Force, due to the eagle on their badges.   
  
Petra raised the back of her hand to rap her knuckles against the frosted glass of Von Varely’s door, but was then interrupted by Caspar grabbing the golden doorknob and thrusting it open.   
  
“Heya Bernie! Whatcha got for us?” He boomed upon entering the office, completely ignoring the records investigator’s scream of terror.   
  
“Can you please knock?!” The scream turned into a squeak as the records investigator slowly spun her chair around to face the two private inspectors.   
  
“I am thinking he does not have understanding of knocking,” Petra mused out loud as she followed Caspar into Bernadetta’s tiny office.   
  
Still, there was no doubt that this office was Bernadetta’s private kingdom. She ruled over the area...albeit rather crowded. The desk was littered with papers and files. Stacks upon stacks of cases were piled up on either side of her desk, making it look like some kind of makeshift castle. The queen of the castle was still trembling in her chair, holding out a cheque book as some form of a makeshift weapon. Now that Bernadetta had stopped screaming, Petra could make out the [ song playing on the radio in the corner.   
  
](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g6LlW902JRk) “That voice is belonging to that singer from Faerghus, no?” Petra pointed at the radio and started to tap her fingers against her hip in time to the music.   
  
“Y-yeah, I think so? Her name’s Annette I think,” Bernadetta blinked owlishly at the sudden softness that wafted from Petra’s question. It was still hard to believe that Caspar and Petra worked together so well.   
  
“I am liking her voice greatly,” Petra smiled, _ ‘But not as much as Dorothea’s, sorry,’ _ she thought to herself.   
  
“Are you kiddin’? Everyone knows that Hilda Valentine has the best voice around!” Caspar huffed and folded his arms.   
  
Petra couldn’t help but frown in disagreement, and decided to bring the conversation back to the actual reason Caspar and her had come to visit Bernadetta. 

“Are you having any leads on the Victor case?” She asked, her voice gentle and soothing to restore peace for the paper kingdom of Von Varley.  
  
Bernadetta gulped and hugged her knees to her chest as she swivelled the chair to her left, “There’s a few files here for you...b-but this only dates back to the past week while he was in Enbarr. It’d take me a little longer to get more records from the Leicester Alliance force.”   
  
The timid woman held up the file marked ‘Victor’ to Petra with a shaky hand. Instantly, Caspar swiped it like a vulture and ripped it open. Petra swiftly plucked the file from her partner with a deadpan expression, ignoring the ‘hey!” in protest.   
  
“I will be reading first,” she stated, taking out the documents and scanning them quickly.   
  
"As for the murder weapon, I think Linhardt is still working on that one," Bernadetta quickly stated as she picked at her fingernails anxiously.  
  
"Eh, it'll take time," Caspar folded his arms, ignoring that his shirt was slowly slipping out of his suit pants.  
  
The first document that Petra read made her heart sink into her stomach.  
  
“He is having a...divorce?” Her voice was softer as she read the official statement.   
  
Instantly, whatever energy that buzzed around the room fizzled out. The grey sky outside of Bernadetta’s window seemed to have amplified the solemn aura that meshed between the three of them.   
  
“Y-Yeah...it was filed just before he got into Enbarr,” Bernadetta’s tone was mousy as she twiddled her thumbs.   
  
Even Caspar’s expression was downcast as he ruffled his spiky teal hair, “I don’t get it. I thought he came here on business.”   
  
“There is such a thing as having a trip for both business and pleasure,” Petra stated, the thought of having to break such a precious tie as marriage was unfathomable to her. She quickly flicked through the rest of the file to find a bank statement, and skimmed the numbers while she scrunched her lips to the side. “It is seeming that his former wife is having the money.”   
  


“Ouch,” Caspar winced and folded his arms, “But the accounts from the club said he was causing a scene. Now I ain’t a psychologist or whatever, but dontcha think scenes happen to due booze?”  
  
Petra frowned in confusion and looked at Caspar.   
  
“You mean if he was intoxicated?” Bernadatta asked, fiddling with the hem of her skirt.   
  
“Yeah. I wanna know how much he spent on drinks at the club,” Caspar nodded, forming a fist with his left hand. 

“What did the victim do again? He was in sales, right?”  
  
“I am having the belief of this,” Petra nodded, shifting her weight to her right.   
  
“Why?”   
  
“Look at this,” Caspar pointed over Pera’s shoulder to the bottom of the bank statement.   
  
Petra’s eyes landed on a particularly large sum of money, and she couldn’t help the small smile that curled onto her lips, “He had withdrawn much money when arriving in Enbarr.”   
  
Bernadetta craned her neck to look at the document from her chair, “But that account doesn’t match his personal one.”   
  
Caspar nodded, “It’s either his ex-wife’s account or his work’s account. Bernie can you check that?”   
  
“S-Sure,” Bernadatte plucked a pen from her little hedgehog canister and started scribbling in her notebook. 

Petra finally handed the file to Caspar, who eagerly snatched it like a child for candy. He began to flick through with glee while Petra pulled out her notebook and addressed the records investigator.  
  
“Bernie, I am needing some information on these people,” Petra then read out the names of Manuela, Dedue and Alois.   
  
“Are they all based in Enbarr?” Bernadetta jotted down the names, checking the spelling from Petra’s notebook in the process.   
  
“Yes, they are all working at the Mittelfrank Jazz Club. Manuela is having ownership.”   
  
“O-Oh! Actually hang on,” Bernadetta wheeled her chair over to the right side of her desk and fished through the stack of files, clearly determined to find something.   
“I remember seeing a business report on that place a while back.”   
  
“Was it dodgy?” Caspar asked, closing the folder and crudely tucking it under his right arm.   
  
“I didn’t read the contents, I just hang onto them,” Bernadetta yanked a file out from the bottom of the tower and handed it to Petra.   
  
“I think this is it?”   
  
Petra opened the file and nodded, “This is perfection. You have my thanks, Bernie.”   
  
Caspar couldn’t help but snicker at the blush that formed on Bernadetta’s face.   
  
Upon opening the file to reveal the papers inside, Petra raised an eyebrow. The first page showed a recent influx of employees and a _ massive _ increase of profit over the last three years.   
  
“This is a business that is being boomed,” Petra mused out loud, taking in the sizeable increase of numbers.   
  
“I wonder why that is,” Caspar grunted, scratching the back of his head and ruffling up the spikes some more.   
  
_ ‘Well, I can think of someone who would draw in a crowd,’ _ Petra thought to herself as she stared at the corkboard on Bernadetta’s wall. It was amuck with different notes and missing posters.   
  
“Out of all the employees at the club, this one seems to have been there the longest,” Caspar pointed to the name that stood out on the current roster at the bottom of the sheet.   
  
“Leonie Pinelli…,” He read the name out loud and took the page from the file, leaving Petra to read the newspaper clipping underneath.   
  
**SHOCKING: DIVINE SONGSTRESS BELTS HER LAST BALLAD**

  
Petra scanned the article, and immediately locked onto the date it was written: 17th day of Blue Sea Moon, 1936. Then, a thought struck her like the piano chords Manuela had played last night.   
  
“Bernie, may I please be keeping this,” Petra asked the records investigator, who nodded.   
  
“Sure, you’re the P.I after all.”

* * *

Caspar and Petra sat at their local coffee shop and sorted out the leads and suspects. Their regular table was cramped at the back of the shop, and the top was littered with files, notebooks and empty cups of coffee and tea. Rain lashed against the window, with the droplets flickering in the low light.  
  
“So, I'm dead set on this Molinaro guy bullshittin’ us,” Caspar stuck his pen onto the sheet of his own notebook, with his other hand having a vice grip on his third up of ginger tea.

  
“We gotta ask him what he was up to. Perhaps he killed Victor.”   
  
Petra, who was about to take a sip of her own four spice blend tea, moved the cup from her lips with confusion on her face, “I am not thinking he is being the culprit, but I am having the thought that he is knowing more than he is saying.”   
  
“Well, we’ll prove it tonight then,” Caspar grinned and scribbled down another name under Mr Molinaro’s in his notebook.   
  
“Victor is a fresh divorcee, and apparently in town for business. I still think that he was drunk when he made a scene,” Caspar had been deadset on this idea for the past hour. His suit jacket now hung on the back of his chair, and he had unbuttoned his waistcoat.   
  
“Then there’s this lady, Ms Pinelli. Why has she stayed so long at the club while everyone else has had such a short employment time? Do we know if she was there the night Victor was killed?”

  
“We will need to be finding out tonight then,” Petra nodded, turning a page in her notebook and landing on her notes about Dorothea.   
  
Her cheeks started to flare as she reread her notes: Dorothea was a true enigma. Her voice, her looks, her very presence was enough to confuse Petra. The P.I bit her lip as she skimmed her notes.

"You really seem interested in this Rose, huh," Caspar peered at the page.

Petra's knuckles turned white as she quickly turned the pages backwards to earlier notes.   
  
“What’s so great about her? She’s a singer, and that’s it.”  
  
Petra did her absolute best to withhold the scowl that longed to crease her face. The poor lighting was not aiding her in the slightest as it only accentuated the blush as well.  
  
“There is something about her that is...mysterious,” Petra’s voice fizzled out as she locked onto the new page. It contained the notes from Manuela.  
  
“I am thinking there is being something between her and Ms Casagranda," Petra said slowly, running her finger over a couple of the bullet points.  
  
“But what’s that got to do with the murder?” Caspar raised his left eyebrow.  
  
With her left hand, Petra opened the file on the table and took out the newspaper clipping to show Caspar, “Be observing the date this is having written, and be checking the club’s business records.”  
  
Caspar pulled the file closer to him and took out the file underneath the clipping.  
  
“So the club started in 1936-”  
  
“And the article was being written in the same year,” Petra interrupted, and placed her index finger on her notebook page.  
  
“Ms Casagranda probably retired from her singing career to start this club," Petra then tapped her finger, "Be remembering she is not wanting any violence in her club. Maybe this is due to not having a ruined image."  
  
"Hmm, ya gotta point there," Caspar skimmed the business report, and then let out a loud 'AHA!' before wincing in pain again.  
  
"H-here! Look under Ms Pinelli's name!" He slid the paper forward for Petra to read.  
  
"...How are we being missed this?" Petra's eyebrows skyrocketed as she honed in on the name next to Leonie Pinelli: Dedue Molinaro.  
  
"Mr Molinaro has worked for Casagranda since she opened the club," Caspar's lips were twitching into a grin as he pulled out his own notebook.  
  
"He's clearly bluffing about not hearing anything else since Victor was murdered, and Casagranda said he took care of everything, so where do you think _she _was during the murder?"  
  
"...In the club," Petra finished as realisation dawned on her.  
  
"Doro-The Rose was saying that she was having Mr Victor in her room, so he went back in the club," Petra quickly caught herself from using The Rose's real name, and thankfully Caspar didn't catch it.  
  
"Victor was thrown out, but somehow got back in the club..." Caspar scratched the back of his head and frowned.  
  
"We really need to get back there and sort out this guy's shit." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the lesbians will run after me with pitchforks but...I like Caspar and Petra's dynamic. 
> 
> hmu on twitter @DValkyrieMusic!


	4. Rarefraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caspar vs Dedue.
> 
> This is your friendly reminder that Dedue is like two metres tall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a super short update, I apologise but I must study for exams.

**Thirteenth day of Red Wolf Moon, 1939 **

Rain continued to pour over Enbarr well into the evening. The streetlights were nothing but warped balls of brightness through the car windows, which were splattered with rain drops. It reminded Petra of a watercolour painting from Brigid, especially the long droplets that blurred the buildings together. Brigaelic artists would use this effect with the trees that thrived in the lush, thick forests of the islands, but due to the humidity of the climate, Brigaelic artists would paint the most in during the rain season.  
  
Constable Hubert Von Vestra sat once again in the driver’s seat with a sick grin curled onto his lips. “I’m surprised you are back here again,” he remarked as the windscreen wipers worked doubletime to provide some kind of aid for his driving.  
  
Petra, in the front seat, shrugged and crossed her left leg over her right, “There is being more to this case. Caspar and I must be having a talk to the suspects.”  
  
“On the one hand, I am glad you are delving deeper into the case,” Hubert commended with a nod before looking into the rearview mirror at Caspar, “But on the other, just remember that-”  
  
“It’s always the one ya least expect, we get it Hubert,” Caspar rolled his eyes, his knee bouncing in the backseat of the police car.  
  
“I’m just trying to be helpful,” Hubert hissed under his breath as he stopped the car out the front of the jazz club once again.  
  
“Did you know sound is louder at night?” Hubert’s sudden question made Petra frown in thought.  
  
“I do not have understanding,” she admitted, and Caspar just straight up shook his head.  
  
“Yeah, whaddaya mean?”  
  
Hubert smirked and arched his gloved fingers on the steering wheel, “It’s called refraction. The ground is cooler in temperature at night, which causes sound waves to bend away from the surface.”  
  
“And how is that trivia gonna help us crack the case?” Caspar sneered into the rear view mirror. He had never really gotten on with Hubert, he thought the man was a glorified skeleton if anything.   
  
Petra turned to face Caspar, “I am thinking that it means all of our suspects are having deception against us. If sound is being amplified at night, then why is everyone not hearing Mr Victor’s death?”  
  
A light sparked in Caspar’s eyes as Petra opened the car door and cautiously placed her foot on the wet pavement, so as not to slip. She stepped out of the car and adjusted her peacoat while Caspar bounded out behind her with his blazer over his shoulder.  
  
“Thanks Hubert, see ya later,” Caspar shut the door and bounded across the street, completely forgetting he was a P.I.  
  
Petra sighed and thanked Hubert quietly as she shut the door and walked after her partner. She picked up the pace upon seeing how close Caspar was the entrance of Mittelfrank Jazz Club because there stood Mr Molinaro, as stoic as ever, with his arms folded.  
  
Caspar skidded to a halt and cleared his throat, “P.I Von Bergliez of the Adrestian Police Force,” he reached into his trouser pockets and pulled out his badge, sticking it directly in front of Mr Molinaro’s face.

  
Petra’s eyes widened, and she turned her walk into a trot, getting her next to Caspar in three seconds. She also pulled out her badge from her peacoat and looked at Mr Molinaro with a kind expression, “It is nice to be seeing you again.”  
  
“Likewise,” was the grunt of a response. The bouncer folded his arms and stared down at Caspar. It only just occurred to Petra that Mr Molinaro absolutely towered over the both of them.  
  
Petra held in her wince, but Caspar puffed out his chest and lowered her badge, “I got some questions to ask you about the murder of Mr Joshua Victor, buddy.”  
  
“Please, ask away,” Mr Molinaro’s voice remained stoic as always. His face was hard as stone, reflecting sharp in the lights from the club.  
  
Caspar’s face contorted into a smirk, and looked almost malicious under the dim street lamp light. Petra rolled her eyes and pulled out her notebook.  
  
“So, ya threw out Mr Victor?” Caspar folded his arms and ever so slightly pushed himself up onto his toes.  
  
“I did.”  
  
“Great, so why didn’t ya hear him die?”  
  
Petra shut her eyes tightly. Caspar, ever so blunt. There was no tact in his questioning, and he was even _ worse _ when it came to interrogations. She opened her eyes slowly to see Mr Molinaro had gone completely silent, and he pursed his lips.  
  
“I didn’t see him.”  
  
“I’m not asking why ya didn’t _ see _ him die though,” Caspar’s smirk grew across his face., “His body was found in that alley,” He jerked his head over to said alleyway.  
  
Petra turned the pages in her notebook until she found the points on Mr Molinaro, “Mr Molinaro, sound is having more loudness during the night, and the alley is having closeness. It is very hard to be beleiving that you are not having heard a man being stabbed or shot.”  
  
“She’s right, sir. If ya didn’t hear it, where _ were _ you? Did ya abandon your post?” Caspar stretched himself further on his toes, his voice becoming more strained in the process.  
  
“...Yes. I did.”  
  
Caspar spluttered and toppled back, having lost his balance at the bouncer’s confession. Petra was able to stick out an arm and catch him.  
  
“What was making you be leaving your post?” Petra asked calmly as she stabilised Caspar back onto his feet.  
  
Mr Molinaro shut his eyes tightly and sighed, “I needed to run an errand…”  
  
“What kind of errand?” Caspar raised an eyebrow and balled his fists. Petra took out her pen, ready to jot down the Bouncer’s confession. This was certainly taking a turn.  
  
“A colleague of Ms Casagranda’s asked me to retrieve her car.”  
  
“You’re a valet too?” Caspar asked as Petra stribbled away. She ignored the jagged phrasing of Caspar’s questions and did her best to focus on the bouncer.  
  
“No, but Ms Casagranda also came out and asked that I fulfil the request, so I did,” Mr Molinaro opened his eyes and looked directly at Petra.  
  
“I saw something rather...strange in her car though. There was an unusual amount of alcohol from a business in the Alliance.”  
  
Petra’s eyebrows skyrocketed, and she held her pen so tightly it would surely snap at any point.  
  
Caspar instantly let out a loud ‘AHA’ and turned to look at his partner, “So you’re a bootlegger, too!”  
  
“I am not a bootlegger, inspector,” Mr Molinaro’s voice turned into a growl, and let out a small sigh.  
  
“He isn’t, Caspar. He is just having fetched the vehicle for the bootlegger. Please do not be jumping to these conclusions.”  
  
“O-Oh,” Caspar instantly retreated into himself, and looked up at Mr Molinaro. “Sorry.”  
  
“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”  
  
Petra’s heart sank at that statement. She knew _ exactly _ was this foreigner was used to, and it made her sick to her stomach. She refused to break, and lifted her head to look Mr Molinaro dead in the eyes. Determined to continue the questioning.  
  
“Are you having remembrance of the car? Or the licence plate?”  
  
“No, but I believe the woman is inside. Best to ask Ms Casagranda. I didn’t get her name,” Mr Molinaro looked down at his feet, almost ashamed. The angle of the street lights caused a shadow over his eyes.  
  
Petra suddenly realised how quiet the street was now that everyone was silent. She bit her lip and closed her notebook, and even that small slip seemed as loud as a whip crack. Next to her, Caspar’s mouth was gaping open as he tried to process everything the bouncer and Petra had just exchanged.  
  
No more, they were done. The rain was getting heavier and Petra would not stand outside and sympathise with this man. Not tonight, anyway.  
  
“That is all we have need of. You have my thanks, Mr Molinaro. Come, Caspar, we must be going inside,” Petra’s curt voiced shot through the night air, and she ignored how loud it sounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's true, sound IS louder at night!


	5. The Acoustic Envelope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caspar and Petra start their on-site investigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I've been playing Ace Attorney? Because I've been playing Ace Attorney.
> 
> Shout out to @ThePlumPyre for beta reading this chapter.

“That sneaky bugger,” Caspar hissed as they walked into the club, taking off their jackets and instantly inhaling the smell of smoke and liquor.    
  
“He is doing his job, Caspar,” Petra let her eyes adjust to the low light as she observed the club. The lighting situation inside the club was no better than the outside, the only sources of luminescence being the candles on the tables and the intricate frosted lamps at the bar. The stage lights were incredibly dim, and the band was currently playing a soft tune.   
  
The club was nearly identical to the night before, save for two people: There was a thin, lanky man at the piano, his ash blonde hair tied back in a neat ponytail;is thin, skeletal fingers pressing down on the ivory keys. Alois was not present on the stage; instead, there was a woman with tanned skin, striking blue eyes and her hair swept back into a ponytail. She wore a white, fitted suit and played the most elaborate saxophone with a frosted metallic finish of dark gold that Petra had ever seen..   
  
Instinctively, Petra pulled out her notebook again from her peacoat pocket that was hanging off of her arm and flicked open the pages to the notes made by The Rose.    
  
“The one playing the piano was not having presence last night,” Petra mused; therefore, the pianist had to be Jeritza.    
  
“He doesn’t look like a pianist,” Caspar grunted and walked over to the bar without any warning.    
  
“Was that lady on the sax present last night?” He asked, and Petra shook her head.   
  
“I am not having knowing of who she is.”    
  
“Eh, I’m sure I’ll get her name when I go up and say ‘hi’ to Randolph,” Caspar shrugged, nodding at the drummer.   
  
“Hang on-” Petra did a double take between her partner and the drummer.    
  
“You are knowing the one on _ Tambor _ \- I mean, the drums?” she quickly corrected herself as Caspar nodded. Upon a closer analysis, Petra  _ did  _ note that their faces were slightly similar in a boyish nature.    
  
“He’s my uncle!” the blue-haired man grinned, shoving a hand in his trouser pocket and looking over at the bar, “I think he works higher in the police force, but I can’t remember. I don’t see him very much, he drums for a hobby and free food.”   
  
Petra nodded and was going to chime in on the banter, but Caspar cut across her with a nod to the bar, “That chick there seems like she knows what’s she doin’, if ya ask me.”   
  
Petra followed his gaze to a woman behind the bar. She was short, with orange coloured hair in a side ponytail shaking a metal tin. She wore a vest with a little orange bowtie and looked incredibly focused.   
  
“I’m gonna ask her some questions,” he threw over his shoulder at Petra, who just stood there and shot a deadpan expression after him.    
  
Petra sighed and closed her notebook, walking forward to see that the club was certainly packed again. It made sense, if Dorothea performed almost every night. She cast another eye around and instantly saw the familiar white fur coat of Manuela sitting at her table. But she wasn’t alone, there was another woman sitting at the table with a cigarette holder in one hand. The dim lighting made her look more suspicious, especially as she sat on the side, the candle flickering to accentuate certain features on her bony face.   
  
Petra instantly recalled a tapestry residing in her family’s Brigid home of a Brigaeli woman who performed magic for those in need, only to suck the life out of them in return. It wasn’t really a fair trade, nor a tale that inspired folk, but Petra firmly believed that tales come with a lesson to be learnt. This one? Don’t trust women.   
  
The P.I approached the table, as stealthy as she would stalk prey in Brigid’s rainforests, reaching for her all-too-familiar police badge in the process as if it were a weapon.   
This seemed to work, because neither of the older women noticed her until she cleared her throat.   
  
“Good evening, Ms Casagranda,” Petra greeted, offering a polite nod.   
  
Manuela turned around, and her eyebrows shot upwards, a grin quirked at the corner of her painted lips. The lighting from the table accentuated the flush of her cheeks.   
  
“Ah, Inspector! What a pleasant surprise,” She offered a nod in exchange before turning back to her guest.   
  
“Cornelia, dear this is that Inspector I was telling you about, the one who came last night and was an absolute gem.”   
  
“I see,” the woman going by Cornelia raised an eyebrow and also bowed her head out of politeness.   
  
“A pleasure,” Petra shifted her weight from one leg to another.   
  
“May I be asking you some more questions?” she quickly glanced from Manuela to Cornelia.   
  
“Haven’t wrapped up that sorry sod’s case yet?” Manuela teased as she reached for her glass.   
  
“I am having belief that there was more to this case than is meeting our eyes,” Petra informed the owner.   
  
“This seems like a private matter,” Cornelia stood from her seat and walked around the table.   
  
“I’ll be at the bar,” she excused herself and sauntered off, leaving Manuela and Petra for privacy.   
  
“Very well, inspector,” Manuela’s lips curled into a grin.   
  
Petra gathered her thoughts, thinking it would be best to start with her most recent discovery.   
  
“I have spoken to Mr Molinaro about the night of the murder. He has given me enlightenment about the frame of time for the evening’s events.”   
  
“Is that so?” Manuela cocked an eyebrow, “He is  _ such  _ a lovely young man.”   
  
“He is telling me that you were having a request for him to valet a car.”   
  
“Yes, that’s correct,” Manuela’s smile slowly fell, “But this happened after I asked him to remove that boisterous drunkard.”   
  
“You are meaning Mr Victor,” Petra pressed slightly. She did, however, wonder just  _ how  _ much of a nuisance Mr Victor was while intoxicated.    
  
“Exactly,” Manuela nodded.

Petra nodded and kept her posture straight, even though the club owner was still sitting in her seat. She did her absolute best to ignore the ‘Uncle Randolph!’ that came from Caspar as he approached the drum set and shook the man’s hand.   
  
“Ms Casagranda, where are you sourcing your alcohol from?” Petra continued, doing her absolute best to filter out the laughter from the two men on the stage.   
  
At that, Manuela’s eyebrows shot upwards, “What a very strange question, Inspector.”   
  
“Please be answering,” Petra’s tone was as stiff as the drink in Manuela’s hand.   
  
“Well, I...I source alcohol from all over Fódlan. Adrestia has crisp spirits, Faerghus produces the finest wine, and the beers are brewed in-”   
  
“The Leicester Alliance,” Petra finished for Manuela, feeling the flames of excitement licking at the insides of her stomach. She was getting close, so very close.    
  
“Do you have understanding that Mr Victor is from the Leicester Alliance?”   
  
“No, I barely knew him. Can’t even remember his face,” Manuela blinked nervously. Petra bit the inside of her cheek: she could barely remember Mr Victor’s face too.   
  
“Then you would not be knowing that his family are merchants who were brewing beer.”   
  
“Absolutely not,” Manuela gave a half shrug and raised her glass to her lips.    
  
“I can tell you, Inspector, that I only source the finest of alcohol, so the brand is important.”   
  
At that, Petra saw her opening and struck, “Please take my apologies, but are you saying that even though you are sourcing the best alcohol, you are not knowing those who brew them?”

Manuela’s face turned pale at the attack.   
  
“I-I hardly see what this has to do with a murder _outside _of my club,” Manuela retorted with a huff, her fingers curling around her glass so tightly that her knuckles turned white.  
  
“I am asking,” Petra leaned forward, going for the bullseye, “because Mr Molinaro found a rather large amount of alcohol in your friend’s vehicle last night.”  
  
Manuela gulped, and Petra held in her smile as best she could.She could see Manuela’s thoughts shattering like glass shards.  
  
_‘Finally! We’re getting a reaction!’ _Petra thought to herself. She could barely contain her excitement; she noticed Caspar moving back to the bar but paid him no heed. She was way too close to acknowledge him right now, but would absolutely fill him in on her success.  
  
“Ms Casagranda, are you by any chance having familiarity with bootlegging?” she continued to press Manuela, ready to strike for the jugular.   
  
“Of course I know what bootlegging is! Just who do you think I am?!” The older woman snapped at the P.I, her upper lip was surely as stiff as the drink in her hand.  
  
“Are having knowing about the loss of business from the Victors? Or perhaps you are having involvement with bootleggers? Did you perhaps set a target on Mr Victor’s back to improve your trading?” Petra shot questions at Manuela as quickly as her punches in the gym that morning.   
  
“No, No No! I’m not involved in anything like that!” Manuela gripped her glass even tighter.  
  
“Inspector, I’m an honest woman. I do not engage with any disgustingly illegal activities such as bootlegging. I source all of my alcohol _legally _from certified traders! Cornelia, for example, sources my Faerghus wine!”  
  
“Ms Casagranda, if you are not having involvement in bootlegging, perhaps someone _else _in your club is, and you are being adamant on stopping them,” Petra moved for the final strike.   
  
“By killing Mr Victor.”  
  
Manuela’s eye twitched and she gritted her teeth.  
  
“Inspector, you have some nerve to come into my club and spew such slander. Not to mention bringing up _my _old friend and calling her a bootlegger.”  
  
“R-Really?” Petra yanked herself out of her excitement at Manuela’s words. _‘Shit, maybe I got_ too _exuberant.’__  
_  
The woman looked incredibly sour, like she had a personal vendetta, “Yes. You can even ask her yourself.”  
  
“I will be,” Petra nodded, and made a mental note to do so.   
  
“Ms Casagranda, on a different topic-”  
  
“Urgh, _really _Inspector? After that berating you _still _want to hound me?” Manuela groaned and placed her fingers to her temple in annoyance.  
  
“Yes, I am trying to solve a murder,” Petra bluntly stated and pulled out her notebook this time. “You were having a singing career before opening this club, am I being correct?”  
  
Instantly, a light sparkled in Manuela’s eyes.  
  
“Yes,” she smiled, “I was the voice of the generation, the Divine Songstress herself.”

“Why did you resign from singing?” Petra asked, taking her pen from her ear to jot down her answer.   
  
Manuela’s expression hardened, “You  _ really  _ are tactless with your questions tonight, aren’t you?”    
  
Petra turned her notebook around to show the singer the newspaper clipping that she folded neatly within the pages, “Three years ago, you retired, and many of your fans had disbelief. You gave them much sadness. Why would you be retiring?”   
  
Manuela blinked slowly, then gave a rather pensive smile, “It was just my time. I’d rather retire at the height of my career rather than being dictated by my age or popularity.”   
  
“Why?” Petra asked, genuinely curious. She did not know much about the world of the arts and entertainment.   
  
“Inspector, I wanted to retire at my absolute pinnacle for the ever lasting impression,” Manuela gestured to herself, “I am still in peak condition, and so is my voice, but the image in my fan’s minds of me? It’s perfect. Not a single flaw. That’s what they’ll remember me as - the Divine Songstress who was practically perfect in every way.”   
  
“Perfect?” Petra cocked her head to the side.   
  
“Oh Inspector, you just don’t get it,” Manuela looked into Petra’s eyes, pitiful, “Do you intend to be with the police force until they force you out from old age?”   
  
“I..do not have understanding.” Petra admitted after thinking long and hard about the question.   
  
“You’re still young, dear,” Manuela sighed and glanced over at the stage.   
  
“The Rose is about to start singing. I suggest you take a seat at the back table if you’d like to watch.”   
  
Petra pursed her lips together - she had been demoted from Manuela’s personal table to the back? It seemed logical, due to the bootlegging accusations, but Petra wasn’t done yet. She couldn’t shake the idea that Manuela wasn’t telling her something.   
  
“Ms Casagranda-”   
  
“Petra!” Caspar’s voice cracked through the air like a whip as he approached the table, a lopsided smile on his face as he held two glasses. His shirt’s top button was undone, and his jacket was slung over his shoulder in a sloppy manner.   
  
“C-Caspar?” Petra eyed the glasses suspiciously.    
  
“Didya find anything useful?” His voice was loud, completely careless about his current environment.   
  
_ ‘Oh for the love of- Caspar!’  _ Petra quickly glanced from Manuela to her partner and winced. He was going to ruin her investigation.   
  
Petra grabbed his shoulders to steer him away from Manuela, “You have my thanks for giving me your time, Ms Casagranda. Please be enjoying your evening.”   
  
“Likewise, Inspector,” Manuela raised her glass lazily with a weary expression 

* * *

Petra managed to steer Caspar over to a vacant table at the back of the club. She sat him down in a plush seat before sitting next to him and threw her head into her hands.   
  
“So? Didya get anything?” Caspar asked again, placing the two drinks on the table and taking the one that was less full for himself.   
  
“Caspar, why are you drinking on the job?!” Petra hissed, not looking up at her partner.   
  
“It’s not booze!” He shot back and pushed the drink closer to her.   
  
“I promise ya, it’s just soda water with lime that was on the house. Ya really think I’d drink on the job?!”   
  
Petra raised her head slightly to look at the glass. It was full of clear liquid, ice, and a single lime, just as Caspar had stated.   
  
“Then why is your shirt having looseness?” she glanced back at Caspar and raised an eyebrow.

“It’s hot in here, dontchya think?” Caspar shrugged.   
  
“I am not in agreement,” Petra shook her head, noticing her own temperature as stable, but when she looked back at Caspar, she could see some droplets of sweat beading around his hairline, and a slight flush on his face.   
  
“Seriously?! Geez Petra,” Caspar threw his hands up in annoyance, revealing sweat stains on his armpits.   
  
Petra scrunched her nose at the sight, and then cautiously took the glass in her hand.

"Anyway, I found out some stuff from Ms Pinelli. Her is she moved from the Alliance to Enbarr three years ago to sell her family’s brews, because her parents are in the brewing business, and that’s why Ms Casagranda took her onboard here.”   
  
"I am following," Petra took a careful swig, and to her pleasant surprise, instantly tasted lime water. 

“Be continuing,” She set down the glass and took out her notebook to jot down Caspar’s findings as he spoke.   
  
“So the situation with Ms Casagranda,” Caspar leaned in closer while wiping the sweat from his brow, “Is that she took a huge gamble and opened the club using all of her savings from her time as a singer. She wanted to make her own rules and not comply with the music industry as it’s entirely male dominated.”   
  
“I have admiration,” Petra’s eyebrows raised slightly as she glanced over at the sour woman she had just interrogated. “And..I have apologies I must be giving her.”   
  
“That can wait, ya know we gotta keep up the image,” Caspar nudged his elbow into Petra’s tricep as a reminder.   
  
“Anyway, so Casagranda discovered a singer after opening up shop, and thought it would be great to get that singer on the stage to showcase her talent. The singer goes by-”   
  
“The Rose,” Petra finished for Caspar, ignoring her heart skip a beat upon saying Dorothea’s stage name.   
  
“Yep, but here’s the kicker,” Caspar started to snigger as he picked up his glass again, “Over the last couple of years, Ms Casagranda and The Rose have been havin’ some beef. Pinelli reckons Casagranda is jealous of The Rose’s looks and voice.”

Petra glanced over again at Manuela - the woman looked to be in her late thirties. She certainly wasn’t an  _ unpleasant  _ sight, but Petra had developed a bias over the last twenty four hours towards Dorothea.   
  
“So, Ms Casagranda is having retirement three years ago to be preserving her image for fans,” Petra mused, her fingers curling around her drink, “She is opening this club,discovering The Rose, and is having jealously of her.”   
  
“But...that doesn’t give her a motive to kill Mr Victor,” Caspar added, rubbing the back of his sweat-slicked neck awkwardly.   
  
Petra hummed and downed the last of her drink, ignoring the inconclusiveness of her theories, ignoring the disappointment of not having a solid suspect, and ignoring the strange aftertaste of her drink, “You are being correct.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll feed you a Doropetra feast next chapter.


	6. The Proximity Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legs are dangerous

Petra discovered that time does not exist within the Mittelfrank Jazz Club. It seemed like an eternity had passed since questioning Manuela. She continued to mull over ideas with Caspar, all the while glancing between the table where the club owner sat and the stage. 

“Hey, do ya think Ms Casagranda imports any alcohol from Brigid?” Caspar asked,  [ swaying to the band ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BgvoQzmhIM) .   
  
“I am not thinking so,” Petra frowned, staring into her almost empty glass.   
  
“It is taking a long time to be importing Brigid belongings. Even I am still waiting for my furs to be coming.”   
  
“Furs? What do ya need furs for?”    
  
“The cold. I am liking to put furs on my bed to be having warmth, especially in this weather,” Petra explained and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.   
  
“Hunting is legal in Brigid, unlike Enbarr, so I am hoping there are no problems with allowing my furs in. They allowed my feather earrings,” she pointed to the green feathers that dangled from her ears.   
  
“They are kinda cool,” Caspar nodded, and tapped his own ear in thought.   
  
“Didya know the chief of police in the Alliance has a hoop earring? That’s so badass!”   
  
“He is most certainly sounding, uh, badass,” Petra agreed, leaning back into her chair with a sigh.   
  
“It is being a shame that Ms Casagranda is not being our blackened.”   
  
“Well, she’s got no motive, and her alibi is solid. Pinelli confirmed she was inside the entire time,” Caspar reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his own battered little notebook, slapping it down on the table with a dull ‘thud.’   
  
“Maybe we should be ending our investigation for the evening,” Petra blinked slowly, feeling a strange fog begin to seep into her mind. 

The second Petra stopped talking, the band kicked into a medium swing. The bass was walking and the piano chords were more sporadic. Caspar let out a loud whoop and raised his glass, “That’s my uncle! Yeah Randolph!”  
  
Petra groaned and threw her head into her hands again. _Of_ _course _Dorothea would start performing when she wanted to leave. Dorothea wasn’t even on the stage yet, and the crowd’s atmosphere had entirely shifted; they were more rowdy, with whoops and whistles that only made Petra’s head throb.  
  
As the stage lights went up, the saxophonist took the mic and cleared her throat, “Ladies and Gentlemen, you’re in for quite the show tonight. Please welcome to the stage the Mythical Songstress herself, The Rose!”  
  
The crowd went ballistic, like a gun shot firing, as the curtains opened and Dorothea sauntered out. She took her sweet time, enjoying the spotlight on her. Petra couldn’t help but follow Dorothea’s every move. The way she walked, accentuating each step with her hip sticking out of that silk red dress.   
  
Dorothea smiled, her teeth sparkling white and her dark red lipstick glistening in the light. She nodded as thanks for the applause and waited patiently for the applause to die down. While she waited, the pianist started to tickle the ivories gently.  
  
Petra felt her heart flutter as Dorothea opened her mouth and[ started to sing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0bUP-RyCqk). Petra once again found herself transfixed by the vocalist. The Rose was utterly still, with total control over her diaphragm and breathing. Her notes were completely on point and rung throughout the club.   
  
This performance was a stark contrast to that of the previous night. The entire audience was silent, utterly captivated by The Rose’s voice. When she paused her phrases, one would surely hear a pin drop.   
  
“How does she stay smilin’?” Caspar whispered way too loudly in Petra’s ear, shattering the silence. Annoyed, Petra shushed him and swatted him away like a mosquito. She never took her eyes off of Dorothea, trying her best to stay within the bubble that was The Rose’s performance.   
  
The singer closed her eyes and moved away from the microphone to belt out a rather high note, then instantly jumped to a lower one with no sign of a struggle. Petra would never understand just how Dorothea was able to control her voice like that, but she could absolutely respect the complexity of being a jazz vocalist.   
  
Dorothea side-eyed the pianist, communicating a stop. She performed a cadenza that landed in her mid range and smiled as she hit her final note. With one hand, she flicked her wrist as a signal for the pianist to flourish the final chord.   
  
The crowd erupted into applause and cheers. The sheer volume of noise vaguely reminded Petra of the rumble of Brigid’s volcanos. She hunched her shoulders at the sudden increase of noise and applauded politely, ignoring Caspar’s thumping claps.  
  
“She’s pretty good!” He called out over the whoops and hollers. Petra couldn’t help herself as a small grin twitched at her lips, watching Dorothea smile and thank the audience. She was completely in her element, drinking in the affection and praise.   
  
Dorothea nodded to the saxophonist and bassist to start [the next song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-7l6GNEhCA). She leaned into the microphone and curled her fingers around the stand as she started to sing. It was much more active than the last song, evident by the constant beat that Randolph provided.  
  
Petra found her cheek in her palm, her elbow resting on the table, blinking to stay focused on The Rose as she moved up and down the microphone. Petra noticed the closer Dorothea got the microphone, the louder her lower notes got. Petra hummed in thought and let her mind wander.   
  
Dorothea, she was so beautiful and talented. Her voice rang out as she scanned the club, watching the men and women become completely captivated. Petra couldn’t help but be jealous, however she had the etiquette to not engage. She also felt if she were off duty, and had the energy, she could absolutely steal The Rose for herself.

...What? Where did that thought come from? Petra snapped her head up and frowned to herself, shaking her head as Caspar leaned across the table again.   
  
“I think Randolph needs a drum solo,”   
  
Petra blinked at Caspar, trying to stay focused, and just sighed, “Sure, Caspar.”  
  
She heard the pianist start to solo with the saxophonist, and noticed Dorothea had moved back from the microphone as their solos finished and Randolph sizzled the cymbals some more.    
  
The crowd once again clamoured and showered Dorothea in praise. With a thankful smile, the woman started to click her fingers.  [ The bass came ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLiFFt_ooPg) in and a few crowd members started to wolf whistle when Dorothea started to move down off the stage and into the audience.   
  
Petra’s jaw unhinged, drinking in the singer playfully interacting with the audience. She dropped her hand to the table and held her head up, gaze lingering on the way Dorothea’s leg slipped out of the hem of her dress to step forward, revealing a dark stiletto that adorned her foot. Petra blinked rapidly, feeling her throat suddenly constrict with saliva. Surely,  _ surely,  _ this was illegal. The way Dorothea leaned against tables, running her fingers over the lapels of businessmen, glacing coquettishly at women, taking a drag of cigarettes offered to her.    
  
When Petra locked eyes with Dorothea, however, was when Petra froze. Time may as well have stopped. Dorothea sauntered over to the detective’s table, sat on the edge of the table, and ruffled Caspar’s already spiky hair. He laughed and flushed a deep red. Petra, completely still as if Dorothea were a wildcat, clenched her fists and forgot how to blink. Dorothea quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward with a sly grin on her face.  
  
When Petra felt those fingernails against her skin, her blood turned to lava and breathing became shallow. Dorothea’s devious fingers traced her jawline, all the way down past the drool that had trickled out of the corner of her mouth, and stopped at her chin. Petra’s eyes widened, suddenly her world was spinning and she was seeing two Dorotheas. The two Roses gently pushed her chin up, closing her mouth.    
  
Petra wanted to implode with embarrassment as her vision swam with the two Dorotheas giggling at her. She was drooling.  _ Drooling.  _ In front of Dorothea. Petra wanted nothing more than to be swallowed by darkness.  
  
With a gentle pat on Petra’s cheek, Dorothea moved back and finished her song with a strong note that lead to a standing ovation from the crowd. Petra took deep breaths, briskly wiping her mouth and looking over at Caspar who was applauding wildly.  
  
“YEAH! THAT WAS KILLER!”  
  
Petra’s head pounded as she went between seeing two Caspars to one.  
  
“I… am having sickness,” Petra mumbled, placing her shaking hands on the table and trying to stand up.  
  
“Petra?” Caspar stopped clapping, concern taking over his features. He reached out a hand, but Petra swatted him away weakly.   
  
“No I...am needing the bathr…” Petra’s voice was slurred and couldn’t finish her sentence. She stumbled through the sea of tables and to the sign that read ‘ladies’ to the right of the bar.   
  
Opening the door with her shoulder, the P.I clung to the nearest bathroom sink for dear life. Her vision was fading, and she felt like her head was submerged underwater, ability to hear decaying rapidly. Petra’s shoulders sagged as her mouth hung open, gasping for air as her entire existence started to weigh down.    
  
_ ‘This isn’t right…’  _ Petra thought slowly, her eyes squinting, trying to refocus her vision. Her grip tightened on the sink as Petra tried to rev her brain to think how this could have happened.   
  
Petra tried her absolute best, but as she focused on thinking, she didn’t realise someone snuck up behind her and knocked her unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Proximity Effect is when the the lower parts/bass of the sound source gets amplified when one gets closer to the microphone.
> 
> Thanks @ThePlumPyre for beta-ing again. Absolute legend.


	7. Tinnitus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Broken noses and possible culprits. 
> 
> Tinnitus is a physical condition, experienced as noises or ringing in the ears or head when no such external physical noise is present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've lost interest in Three Houses, hence why this chapter is short, but I'll try and finish this story.

**  
** The world was dark and silent, so if Petra wasn’t groggily stirring, she would find it strange as to why the cause of her return to consciousness was the ringing in her ears.   
  
Her eyes fluttered open, but before she could focus on her surroundings, she was punched in the nose.   
  
Petra let out a groan of pain and scrunched up her face, shutting her eyes in the process. She was sure her nose was broken, as she felt the blood trickling down from her nostrils.   
  
“Rise and shine, inspetor.”   
  
The ringing in Petra’s ears muffled her hearing, but Petra noticed that she was not familiar with this voice. Petra made another attempt to open her eyes, and immediately squinted at the harsh lighting coming from the ceiling lamp that dangled over her.   
  
Petra looked up, her vision swimming. She coughed as her bleariness slowly started to fade away, revealing a figure in front of her. It took a few seconds, but Petra recognised the form of the woman who sat at Manuela’s table. She still wore the velvety blue dress, and her arms were folded. Her right fingers were decorated with rings encrusted with jewels, which explained why the blow to Petra’s nose felt ten times worse.   
  
“You certainly are a slippery one, y’know that?” The woman sneered, her fingernails digging into her arm.   
  
_ ‘Que carallo porra éssa…’ _Petra groaned, coughing out some blood from her mouth as she opened it to breathe. She tried to stand up, but her hands and feet were tied to the chair. 

“To think that _ I _ , Cornelia, would have been able to carry out my ingenious operation smoothly, but now I have _ you _ to thank for ruining it ,” the woman scowled and readied her fist to strike again.   
  
Petra squinted at Cornelia, trying to put two and two together.   
  
“Do you...know Mr Vic-”   
  
Before Petra could finish, Cornelia punched her again, square in the jaw. Petra cried out in pain and shut her eyes, holding back the tears that threatened to slip.   
  
“Mr Victor fucked up my entire business,” Cornelia growled, flexing her fingers from the fist and completely ignoring Petra.

Petra spat out more blood and winced as her broken nose throbbed.  
  
“If he stuck to the plan and didn’t wail ‘woe is me,’ then none of this would have happened.”   
  
Petra opened one eye to look at Cornelia, “I am...not understa-”   
  
Once again, Cornelia’s fist made contact with Petra’s face. A guttural noise rumbled in Petra’s throat as the tears finally streamed down Petra’s cheeks.   
  
“Mr Victor is the most incompetent bootlegger in the history of Fodlan, you idiot!” Cornelia spat as she grabbed a fistfull of Petra’s hair and yanked it up, so that the detective was forced to look up.   
  
“When did he blab?”   
  
“Wh-”   
  
“Answer me!” Cornelia sneered, not even giving Petra the chance to question.   
  
“N-No...notice…”   
  
“Bullshit!” Cornelia dug her fingernails into Petra’s scalp with a manic flare in her eyes.   
  
“The idiot had no spine, when did he tell the police?”   
  
“Never…” Petra swallowed the blood that was bubbling at the back of her throat.   
  
Cornelia spat at Petra’s feet, fire in her eyes as her lips pursed.   
  
“I find it hard to believe that spineless excuse of a man would continue our deal.”   
  
“...Deal?” Petra’s voice was tiny and frail as she heaved oxygen into her chest.   
  
“He was my mule.”   
  
Petra had heard that term before on her first year on the job. Normally very gullible, mules were those who took alcohol across the borders for their clients. It was a ruthless, pitiful job - normally leaving to immediate disposal upon completion.   
  
“If only he did his job properly, then I wouldn’t have threaten to-”   
  
Cornelia didn’t finish her sentence, because a window from the upper left was shattered.   
  
“Adrastian Police Force!” Petra recognised Caspar’s shrill bark as two figures jumped through the window and rolled onto the ground. Both had their guns pointed at Cornelia. 

* * *

  
“Shit, her alibi is solid,” Caspar ruffled the back of his hair and slumped down next to Petra. He and Hubert at managed to find out that Petra had been taken hostage across the west side of Enbarr in a warehouse full of illegal alcohol. Petra currently sat in the back of a police car, ice on her nose and blanket wrapped around her shoulders.   
  
She did not say anything, but gave an indication for Caspar to continue talking with a small nod.   
  
“She left the club for her hotel the night of the murder. The hotel workers are her alibi,” Caspar grunted and offered a water bottle to Petra, who shook her head.   
  
“We’re lucky we found ya quickly! Only took us a couple of hours. Let’s just wait for Hubert to finish his reports and we’ll get you to Lindhart to look at that nose.”   
  
Petra side-eyed Caspar, breathing through her mouth.   
  
“Didya get anythin’ else outta the broad?”   
  
“Victor...worked for her,” was all Petra was able to get out before she winced in pain and pressed the ice against her nose some more.   
  
“Huh, I guess this isn’t the best time to ask ya for info,” Caspar looked down sheepishly.   
  



	8. Fundamentals & Harmonics

**Seventeenth day of Red Wolf Moon, 1939**

If there was one thing Petra hated about living in Enbarr, it was the weather. 

The grey clouds and constant rain only weighed down on her mood. She sat in her apartment by the window, only wearing suit pants and a singlet top as she held an icepack to her nose as part of the instructions given to her by Linhardt.   
  
Caspar and Hubert were currently investigating more of the muder, giving Petra time to recover. Petra’s nose was well and truly broken, and having been in her self isolation for about a week, she made use of the time finalising reports.   
  
She spoke to Caspar everyday on the phone, tossing up evidence and trying to piece together theories as to who could’ve killed Mr Victor. Caspar relayed everything and anything to his partner.

Just as Petra continued to reminisce, the phone on the wall shrilly rang, yanking her back to reality. With a gentle shove, Petra got off her perch by the windowsill and went to pick up the phone.   
  
“Yo Petra!” Caspar’s voice instantly sounded before Petra had the chance to even greet.   
  
“Caspar, it is being past eight, why are you still at the office?” Petra asked, knowing full well that the inspector would still be on their floor of the Adrestian Police Force building.

“Well that’s why I’m callin’ ya! I think Hubert and myself dug up some real dirt on this case.”  
  
“Please continue,” Petra leaned against the wall with her left hand in her pants pocket, lodging the phone between her shoulder and ear to hold her ice pack with her right hand.   
  
“Okay so get this,” Caspar started excitedly.    
  
“Linhardt was examinin’ the body all of last week - completely skinned the guy top to tail-”   
  
“Are you meaning skimmed?” Petra wrinkled her nose at the thought of Linhardt with a scalpel literally de-skinning a dead man.   
  
“Uh, yeah. Sorry I guess my fourteenth coffee is kicking in,” Caspar let out a delirious chuckle and Petra sighed.   
  
“Okay Linhardt did his thing, and found the bullet in Victor’s body. It’s kinda cliche but the sucker was quite literally shot through the heart.”   
  
“Then who is being to blame?” Petra questioned.   
  
“Well whoever it is, they give love a bad name,” Caspar continued as some paper rustling sounded through the line.   
  
“Linhardt also got the knife analysed from the man’s leg. There’s no fingerprints so my guess is our culprit is either a genius and wiped the knife down, or they wore gloves.”   
  
“The latter, most likely,” Petra mused, biting her lip in thought.   
  
“I spoke to Ms Pinelli again, who’s in custody by the way.”   
  
“Why?” That was new to Petra. The bartender seemed completely harmless.    
  
“Well, she knew about Cornelia’s bootlegging, and also spilled the beans on Mr Victor being a mule. Apparently, he couldn’t take the pressure of the job and actually chucked a wet and tried to rat out Cornelia the day he came into Enbarr, which is also like a day or so after the divorce papers went through.”

“That is having most sadness,” Petra sighed, glancing out the rain-stained window. 

“Yeah, but Ms Pinelli says she’s didn’t murder him, and her alibi is solid because she was in the club the whole time,” Caspar groaned, and Petra could perfectly envision the man running a hand through his spiky teal hair.

“We are going in the circular way,” Petra added with a glum tone.

“Not entirely, Pinelli  _ did  _ spill the beans on Mr Piano Man though. Apparently he was acting super sketchy the night of the murder, and according to Pinelli and that trumpet tooter, uh Alois? Yeah I think that’s it. Dude with the moustache-”   
  
“Caspar,” Petra’s tone sharpened to keep her partner on track.   
  
“Whoops. Anyway, Alois doubled down with Pinelli to confirm that the piano guy wears gloves.”   
  
“Are you wanting to investigate him?”    
  
“Yeah, so I’m actually headin’ down to the club after I’m done chattin’ to ya. I tell ya what thought Petra, this case is proving to be a tricky one. However, Linhardt mentioned that it’s rather strange though. The human heart is positioned a little to the left, and most people who fire a gun to the chest miss the heart, but I don’t get why.”   
  
Petra hummed and glanced down at her feet, she shifted the phone in her weight to her left leg and tapped the ice pack with her right index finger.

“It is indeed having strangeness. I will be returning to my notes and continue to piece this case together.”   
  
“Sounds good, I gotta go now to the club. Talk to ya tomorrow?”   
  
“Yes, that is sounding great. Thank you Caspar,” Petra nodded and hung up the phone. She rolled her head to stretch her neck, ever so careful of not moving too fast so as to not disturb her nose.

The ice was starting to melt, so Petra moved to the kitchen to change the ice in her pack. She caught a glimpse of her reflection from the metal sink. Her nose was still swollen, with bruised blotching her entire area. She felt the throbbing again as she pressed the fresh ice, and shut her eyes at the cold sensation.

Although Petra intended to get to her desk to write, she ended up leaning against the kitchen sink to press the ice some more.

She lost track of time, but only shot up when the phone rang again.

Petra sighed and walked over again, her bare feet against the soft carpet, and picked up the phone.   
  
“Macneary residence,” She answered in a dull voice, expecting someone from the force to be on the other line. Perhaps it was Caspar with some last minue information.   
  
“Inspector Macneary?”   
  
Petra’s eyes widened at the velvety tone on the other line. It most certainly was not Caspar.    
  
“M-Ms Arnault?” Petra asked, cursing her throat to parch at that instant.   
  
“The one and only,” Petra could practically hear the grin.   
  
“This is giving me such astonishment,” Petra eased the pressure off of her nose in order to not sound as nasally.

“Oh I do hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”   
  
“N-Not at all, I am having wonder of you acquired my personal number though,” Petra’s brain was working overtime to try and put the situation at hand together.

“Ah, well I rang the number on the business card you gave me, but your colleague picked up - Inspector von Bergliez, I believe?”   
  
“Yes, we are working together.”   
  
“Well, he said you were injured and gave me your personal line. I do apologise for this but I will forget this number once we’re done.”

“Ah, I see,” Petra shut her eyes. Of  _ course  _ Caspar would do that.   
  
“Are you alright? You sound rather flat and down.”   
  
“Yes, I am recovering from a nasal injury. There is no need for worry. What can I be helping you with, Ms Arnault?” Petra tried to stay cool, calm and collected, but her leg was shaking with excitement for some strange reason.

“You did say to contact you if anything were to come up about that Victor fellow’s case, so here I am,” Dorothea drawled with a lilt in her voice.   
  
“I wanted to speak to you about a colleague of mine. Jeritza.”   
  
“You will be having to refresh my mind - who is Jeritza again?” Petra fumbled in her right pants pocket for a notebook, but cursed herself for leaving the pen on her desk and the ice on her nose.

“Jeritza is the club’s house pianist. He also works with Alois at the Seiros union, but sometimes goes out of town for his job so Manuela will fill in on piano.”   
  
“Oh! Yes, that tall man with the blonde hair and...gloves,” Petra’s stomach flipped when she pieced together Jeritza’s name to his face.   
  
“Well, I just remembered he was certainly acting very suspicious the night of the murder. He kept ducking in and out of the club, not saying a word. Come to think of it, Manuela was acting strange as well, constantly looking for him.”   
  
“I see,” Petra frowned, trying her best to remember all of this to write down once the phone call was over.   
  
“I was wondering, if it’s okay with you, if we could meet up and discuss?”   
  
That’s when Petra turned to stone.

“Meet up? Uhm,” she glanced down at herself. She’d need to get dressed and somehow get herself to wherever without acting suspicious. Plus, her nose was still rather sore. Caspar was at the club, Hubert would definitely be at the station, and Linhardt- why Linhardt? The man never left his lab!

“Would you be able to meet at my place, perhaps?” The question sent Petra further into a spiral. Dorothea, The Rose, inviting Petra over to talk? Surely this was going  _ beyond  _ her intention of just providing intel.

“I-Is there somewhere nearby we could perhaps meet? A cafe or bar or park?”

“There’s a park near my place. Plenty of undercover areas so that we don’t get wet,” Dorothea teased, and Petra’s blood ran cold.

“C-Can you be giving me the address?”

**Author's Note:**

> Petra that's gay.
> 
> F to pay respects for Ignatz's brother
> 
> hmu on twitter @DValkyrieMusic


End file.
